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BEETHOVEN: 


A BIOGRAPHICAL ROMANCE 


TRANSLATED BY 

S. B. RANDOLPH, 

FROM THE GERMAN OF 

EL RAU, 

'I 

AUTHOR OF ‘‘MOZART.” 


4 9 

• O • 

BOSTON: 

OLIVER DITSON COMPANY. 

NEW YORK: CHICAGO: PHILA: BOSTON: 

C. H. Ditson & Co. Lyon & Healy. J. E. Ditson & Co. John C. Haynes & ca 

Copyright, mdccclxxx, by Oliver Ditson & Co. 
Copyright, mcmviii, by Oliver Ditson Company 





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BEETHOVEN: 

A BIOGRAPHICAL ROMANCE. 


THE EAGLE’S NEST. 

There is scarcely a more beautiful or more romantic spot on the 
shores of the Rhine than Godesberg, situated near the pleasant 
town of Bonn. The road leading to this charming hill, which 
is crowned with a magnificent ruin, runs through a rich plain, 
bordered on the right by a wooded mountain, at whose feet a 
multitude of little villages, in a long row, have comfortably 
nestled. On the left the Rhine rolls its silver, sparkling waves 
majestically along, while at some distance rise the strange 
forms of those seven mountain peaks which, a branch of the 
western forest, form the so-called Seven Mountains. 

And what a charming prospect the heights on this side of 
the Rhine now offer ! the broad, fruitful valley, the proudly- 
flowing stream, the forests and fields, the villages and farms, 
and, yonder, the magnificent Seven Mountains themselves, from 
all of whose summits the ruins of old castles beckon to the 
intoxicated beholder, like greetings from the old, long-buried 
times. 

Do not saga and story weave around each of these mins a 
magic veil of mist ? Do they not entwine about them as the 
ivy, with its dark-green, clings to the decaying walls? And 
what does the Drachenfels say to you, as he rises almost per- 
pendicularly from the stream, with his terraced vineyard, which 
towers above the shore like a colossal wall, and his castle ruins, 
which stand like the works of a sculptor ? Does he not whisper 
to you the legend of Siegfried, who slew the dragon that made 
his den here ? 


4 


Beethoven : 


Do not the ruins of Lowenberg greet you solemnly, telling 
you of the famous old race of the nobles of Heinsberg and their 
deeds, of William IY. and his cruel death, of the reformers 
Melancthon and Bucer, who for a long time found hospitality 
and protection behind these walls, then so firm and proud? 
And what a marvellous story of the beautiful Agnes of Mans- 
field, and the Elector Gebhard, do the breezes bring from over 
there. 

It is really worth the trouble to listen to all these mysterious 
whisperings which the seven old comrades up yonder entrust to 
the breezes, and which these garrulously bring over to the 
solemn Godesberg and its proud crown of walls. 

To Godesberg and its ruin a merry company was now on its 
way. It consisted of Frau Yon Breuning, the widow of the 
Electoral Hofrath Yon Breuning, with her two sons, Stephan 
and Christoph, and her daughter, Eleonore, an intimate friend 
of the latter, the lovely little Bosa, and the family friends, 
Ries, Wegeler, and Beethoven. 

That there should be mirth among this little company was a 
matter of course. Frau Yon Breuning was herself cheerful, and 
still young, and knew how to live with these young people who 
surrounded her. Stephan was sixteen years of age, Christoph 
and Ludwig Yan Beethoven, fifteen, and the two girls were just 
entering their fourteenth year. 

Only one older man, the worthy Chamber-Musician and 
Director of the Electoral Chapel, had, as usual, joined the 
merry circle. He was indeed counted almost a member of the 
Breuning family, whose comforter and adviser he had been 
since the death of the Hofrath. In the favorable seasons of 
the year, it was one of the chief pleasures of this family to take 
walks in the glorious surrounding country, for sensibility to the 
beauties of nature was natural to them, as, in fact, was recep- 
tivity for everything good and beautiful. These impulses pro- 
ceeded from Frau Yon Breuning. To her merry disposition 
she added strict moral principle and a well-rounded character, 
rare in a woman especially at that time, the last decade of the 
previous century, in which the corruption prevalent in almost 
all the German courts reacted so contagiously upon the masses. 

Frau Yon Breuning was also a remarkably practical woman, 
and loved to unite what was agreeable and useful with what 


A Biographical Romance. 


5 


was beautiful and noble. Therefore, she always sustained in 
her home a wide circle of useful energies. She resolved that 
her children should find here what she found, and through this 
life of intellectual activity at home should escape from the 
devious paths without. A liberal culture was added to this 
youthful merriment. 

The study of new literature was one of the pleasures of this 
circle. Both in summer and winter, they met regularly on 
certain evenings, when the writings of Shakespeare, Goethe, 
Schiller, and Herder were taken up. Even in their walks one 
such author was always present. When they had looked to 
their heart’s content, some pretty little nook was chosen in which 
to pitch their camp, and, after a bodily refreshment, which the 
young people usually carried in their botanizing boxes, enjoy- 
ment was also provided for the intellect. 

Music was not less a bond of union in this company. Frau 
Yon Breuning was herself an accomplished pianist; Bies, the 
Chamber-Musician, excelled on several instruments; Stephan 
Yon Breuning played the violin moderately well; while 
Christoph and Eleonore had already made fine progress on the 
piano under their friend, the talented young Beethoven. These 
were usually joined by two other young friends, Bernhard and 
Andreas Bomberg, the first of whom was an admirable violon- 
cellist, and the other played no less skillfully on the violin. 
These together made very pretty concerts, conducted by Bies, 
and made brilliant by Christoph Breuning’s recital of original 
or selected poems. But the most brilliant star among them 
was without doubt the young Beethoven, who possessed a 
glorious musical talent, and had already in this circle distin- 
guished himself by composition.* He was the son of Johann 
Yan Beethoven, tenor singer for the Elector ; but the father 
troubled himself little about the son. He led a dissolute life ; 
and the mother, good as she was, could not always prevent 
disagreeable scenes. Ludwig grew to feel less at home in his 
parents’ house than at the Breunings’, and was soon treated 
there like a child of the family, and spent not only the greater 
part of the day but also many a night with them. Everything 

* Biographical Notices of Ludwig Yan Beethoven, by Wegeler and Ries, p. 9. 
Biography of Ludwig Vaji Beethoven, by A. Schindler, Musical Director and 
Professor, pages 18, 19. 


6 


Beetnoven : 


there conspired to make him cheerful, and to develop his intel- 
lect, — all here loved him so well that they received even his 
morose and sullen demeanor with indulgence ; and there was 
soon no one who could exert so softening an influence upon him 
as Frau Yon Breuning, with her cheerful, sensitive nature. 
For example, when Ludwig, who was then a young man of 
fifteen years of age, and already considered a remarkable 
player upon the organ and piano, made no effort to conquer 
his repugnance to giving lessons, and behaved “ like a bad- 
tempered donkey,”* how often was it that Frau Yon Breuning, 
by gently reminding him of the hopes which his poor mother 
rested upon him, inspired him to the faithful performance of 
duty. Ludwig knew, too, what a friend he had in the Hofrath’s 
widow ; he not only admired her clear, practical wisdom, but he 
loved and honored her as his second mother. Frau Yon 
Breuning was proud of his love, for her womanly instinct 
enabled her to see in the young Ludwig Beethoven, in spite of 
his rough exterior, the decided talents of a great musician. 

He was often morose and sullen, and, at times, fell into a 
fine frenzy, as she called it ; but did not these objectionable 
qualities proceed from the consciousness of the struggling power 
of a Titan in a young man whose home education had been by 
no means favorable ? He was sensitive and easily irritated ; 
but did not this proceed from the extreme delicacy which 
characterized his whole mental organization? Many found the 
young man peculiar and even repelling. Frau Yon Breuning 
saw deeper ; she perceived in his eccentricities the sharp edges 
of an uncut jewel ; she saw in them genuine originality ; and, 
in his gloomy and reserved moods, she felt sure he was seeking 
the keys of an inner world which the unfolding spirit suspected 
but had not yet found. For his iuner world Ludwig must be 
his own Columbus, but his . friend could help him to find the 
true intellectual channel, and this she faithfully did. That he 
had a warm heart for everything beautiful and great she had 
long known, but she admired still more his stern morality, which 
could not tolerate the smallest thing bordering on coarseness. 
Through continued intercourse with herself and hers, she hoped 
to correct his clumsy and awkward bearing. 


* Schindler, p. 23. 


A Biographical Romance. 


7 


Today the Breuning family had taken a long walk ; and the 
glorious spring weather enticed them to go to Godesberg. The 
greater part of the distance was now behind them, and finding 
half way up hill, on a projecting rock, a beautiful spot which 
commanded a fine view of the Rhine valley and the Seven 
Mountains, they pitched their camp there. The young people 
produced the lunch and some bottles of wine from their 
botanizing boxes, while Eleonore and Rosa busied themselves 
with spreading a white cloth upon the grass and arranging their 
frugal meal. Fun and merriment were kept up all the while. 
The young people had applied to each other the names of the 
elves in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, and had 
made bewitching little Rosa their Queen Titania. Each one 
now attempted to act and speak in the spirit of his role which 
caused much laughter, but Beethoven, as Puck, was not 
pleased with his part. Indeed, he was a little “ extraordinary” 
again today. 

Frau Von Breuning was about to propose that they should 
read something when, at a little distance, she perceived several 
peasants shading their eyes with their hands, and looking up 
into the sky. Involuntarily, the glances of the little company fol- 
lowed in the same direction, and now they discovered a scarcely- 
perceptible black point moving in a broad circle in the blue sky. 

“A falcon ! ” cried Christoph. 

“No!” answered the older Breuning; “considering the 
height and distance the point is too large for a falcon.” 

“ What else can it be V ” 

“ With what majestic pride he moves in those circles ! ” said 
Eleonore. “ It must be fine to hover above the earth as he 
does.” 

“ Yes,” answered young Beethoven, “ it must be truly divine. 
Oh, to have wings to fly toward the sun, far above the world 
and men ! ” 

“Have you forgotten the legend of Daedalus and Icarus? ” 
asked Frau Yon Breuning. 

“ No,” answered Beethoven, seriously ; “ but what is it to 
perish when one has looked into the shining face of the sun?” 

“I am of a different opinion,” continued Frau Yon Breun- 
ing. “Are we not here on this mountain height nearer to the 
sky and to the light, and do we not look out upon the broad 


8 


Beethoven : 


and beautiful world ? But we have two other great advantages : 
in the first place, we feel firm ground beneath our feet ; and, 
then, we are glad and joyous in the midst of creation, and can 
move among our kind. Up there, on that dizzy height, which 
not a sound can reach, the loneliness must be terrible.” 

“And for that reason glorious,” said Beethoven, “for one is 
alone with himself, and hovers sublime, as a god, above the 
whole creation. When I look at that bird, as he soars, majes- 
tically and slowly, in the blue ether, it is as if some mysterious 
power were drawing me up and away to him.” 

At this moment Ries returned from the peasants, of whom 
he had been inquiring what was attracting their attention so 
unusually. It must be something remarkable, for a peasant 
does not watch such an every-day sight as a falcon. 

“ Well,” they all asked, “ what is it? ” 

“ It is an eagle,” answered Ries. 

“An eagle ? In this part of the country ? ” 

“He may have flown here from Switzerland; this often 
happens ; but the peasants know only too well that it is an 
eagle, for he has already carried oft’ a large number of hens, 
geese, and rabbits before their eyes ! ” 

“ Then why don’t they shoot him ? ” asked Eleonore. 

“ Probably they are like the Nurembergers,” said Christoph, 
“ they never hang a man till they catch him.” Here he sud- 
denly stopped, and, looking wonderingly around, cried “ What 
has become of Ludwig? ” 

All eyes now sought young Beethoven. He had indeed 
vanished. 

“ He has gone to find a Daedalus,” said Ries, “ to glue wax 
wings on to him ; he had a desire a while ago to fly to the sun. 
He has one of his rhapsodies again, as the mother calls them, 
but it is not fair to leave the company.” 

“ No doubt, he will come back again soon,” said Eleonore, 
excusingly. 

“ Well, let us leave him,” said Stephan, “ and read the odes 
of the glorious Klopstock; ” and he began and read several of 
them with a rich voice, and such true appreciation that all 
listened with delight. 

While Breuning was thus reading, young Beethoven, with- 
out knowing it, had approached much nearer to the top of the 


A Biographical Romance. 


9 


hill. The eagle, hovering in the air, had awakened in him 
thoughts of greatness and sublimity until he had forgotten 
everything around him. How it pained the young man that he 
was not a Daedalus, not a Greek. The same, or a like success, 
might have been his, and his ardent soul thirsted so eagerly for 
greatness. But what has been, may it not be again ? Ludwig 
thought of Lessing, of Goethe, whose fame was even then ring- 
ing through Germany, of Bach, Handel, Graun, Glück, Haydn, 
Mozart. Why should not he, too, like these, achieve a name 
which should have a right to go down to posterity ? He was 
but fifteen years, and already known as a virtuoso on the piano, 
the organ, and the violin ; yes, he had been already recom- 
mended by his patron, Count Waldenfels, to the Elector of 
Cologne, residing in Bonn, as organist and Chamber-Musician. 
Even in composition, he had already done well; and what 
power, what strong impulse, to be and to do far, far greater 
did he feel within himself. 

While he was thus thinking, his mind turned again to the 
eagle, soaring so far above the world in his illuminated loneli- 
ness, and, all at once, it became clear to him that, if he would 
be truly great through music, he must live and act for this idea, 
and for this alone, — that he must esteem it above all else in 
life, above friends and kindred, above friendship and love, 
above riches, honor, happiness. He stood still, for an ice-cold 
chill ran over him. He had in thought had a glimpse of that 
soundless, lofty loneliness in which the eagle, great but joyless, 
was hovering, and it shook him as Mahomet was shaken when, 
according to the tradition, God laid his hand in blessing on 
his head. At the same moment, he heard a peculiar rustling 
and beating of the air above him ; he looked up, and an 
immense bird, with outspread wings, passed over him, and 
alighted on the crown of the ruin. 

It was the eagle which had descended from the heights. 


SUNKISE AND SUNSET. 

There are moments in the lives of men which, though they 
may appear accidental, and even trivial, seem to the mental 


10 


Beethoven : 


vision so powerful and prophetic that they have a decisive 
influence upon the future. 

Such moments all great men have had, and are still having. 
Self-deception, imagination, and the too ardent reverence of 
followers in the earlier darker centuries, explain these moments 
as divine revelations. We know they are revelations from the 
man’s own soul, which, in times of exalted activity, beholds 
itself in full clearness, and becomes conscious of its own destiny. 

The young Ludwig Van Beethoven had just passed through 
a moment like this. Lost in such thoughts of future greatness 
as rush through the soul of every noble man, the swift flight of 
the eagle above his head had no less power to surprise than to 
electrify him. The conjunction of his thought with the strange 
appearance caused him for an instant to identify himself with 
the apparition. 

Like a wonderful presentiment, the thought came to him, 
“ That is the image, the symbol, of thy future , ” but this pre- 
sentiment lasted but a second ; then he was thrilled with holy 
awe, and nothing remained but a strange inspiration, which 
aroused all the forces of life, and called to him in the inmost 
depths of his soul, “ Up, and become great, also, in thy call- 
ing ; ” and Ludwig sank into thought again. The world 
around existed for him no longer. 

Leaning against the half-fallen wall of the ruin, he looked 
out fixedly into the distance. His eyes saw not, his ear heard 
not, but so much the clearer was the flashing and the ringing 
within him. Thoughts and purposes crowded upon each other, 
and, while he lost the outer world, a rich inner world was dis- 
closed to his spiritual sight. 

The development of such an earnest character in a young 
man of fifteen years was remarkable, but it was not new to 
Ludwig Van Beethoven. Many a time, with interest, had Frau 
Von Breuning noticed him in such a mood, and had rightly 
judged when she said, “ This stern gathering up of the whole 
soul, and this communion with himself, are the heralds of a 
great future.” 

While he was leaning against the wall of the ruin, and 
gazing out into the distance, the Breuning family were prepar- 
ing to continue their walk. The two girls took the table-cloth, 
the young men helping them, and, amid jests and laughter, put 


A Biographical Romance. 11 

it, with the remnant of their little meal, in their botanizing 
boxes. 

Godesberg was not at that time of so much consequence as it 
is today, when the locomotive carries us thither from Bonn in 
a few moments. Now it is a small but elegant watering-place, 
with magnificent villas. At that time, it was a miserable little 
place, scarcely worth naming. Now, in our century of comfort, 
a beautiful, gently-sloping road leads to the ruin, where, in 
addition to the glorious prospect, a good hotel awaits the wan- 
derer. At that time he had to climb wearily the wild, rough 
road ; rocks and shrubbery hemmed him in on every side, and 
wild roses and blackberry bushes often teasingly threw out here 
and there their green, prickly arms; but in the conquering of 
these little difficulties lay an especial charm. The goal, wearily 
reached, rewards with redoubled enjoyment. 

So the Breunings started for this goal, for this ruin. They 
knew that they should find Ludwig there, and Eleonore ’s sharp 
eye had soon spied out her young friend and teacher. She was 
on the point of communicating her discovery to the others by a 
joyful outcry when the company, at a curve in the half-fallen 
wall, came upon an interesting group. Stretched upon the soft 
moss lay a fine-looking elderly man ; two quite young people, 
who were apparently twin brothers, for they were as much alike 
as t)yo eggs, sat before him. Both had books lying upon their 
knees, and were drawing so busily that they did not notice the 
party as they approached. But the strangest thing of all was 
that while one of the youthful artists had his eyes directed 
toward the glorious Seven Mountains, the other turned his back 
to this wonderful prospect, and was evidently occupied taking 
a portrait of the sleeping man. 

“ Done ! ” he cried at length in triumph, so loud that the 
sleeper awoke, and, at the same moment, the letter sprang up, 
and, reaching out both hands to Frau Yon Breuning, cried, 
“ Frau Yon Breuning, is it possible ! what a delightful meet- 
ing ! ” 

Frau Yon Breuning was also greatly surprised, for before 
her stood her husband’s best friend and the champion of his 
youth, the Elector of Cologne’s worthy Counsellor of the 
Exchequer, Yon Kiigelgen, who, in former times, had spent so 
many hours and days at her house. Of course, she gave him a 


12 


Beethoven : 


joyous welcome. “ But,” she added, in her winning way, “how 
is it that I find you here ? I cannot think that you have been 
in Bonn without visiting us.” 

“I should have done so tomorrow,” answered the Counsellor, 
“for we intend to go into Bonn again this evening.” 

“ What brings you this way ? ” 

“The education of my sons,” replied Herr Yon Kiigelgen, 
beckoning to the twin brothers, and introducing them, — “ Ger- 
hard and Karl. I am going to send them to the J esuit school, 
in Bonn.” * 

At these words of the father, Frau Yon Breuning held out 
her hand to the two boys. It did not escape her quick sight 
that Gerhard’s eyes moistened, and Karl looked down with 
a suppressed sigh. 

“ You do not like to be separated from your father,” she 
said, gently. 

The boys nodded their heads in assent, but the Counsellor 
said, “ They have a greater grief; they would both like to be 
painters, since nature has given them fine talents for this art, 
but, after mature consideration, I have destined them for the 
study of medicine and the law.” 

“ Why,” asked Frau Yon Breuning, “if their natural bent 
impels them to art ? ” 

“ No one can honor the true artist,” replied the Counsellor, 
“more highly than I; on the other hand, mediocrity in art is 
the most miserable thing that can be; and how many arrive at 
perfection? ” 

“But does it not depend upon the attempt?” interrupted 
Frau Yon Breuning, timidly. 

“ Which will cost the best years of life,” cried the father, 
sternly, “ and lead in the end to nothing profitable ; then 
every other career is spoiled, the object of a man’s life has failed, 
his character is distorted.” 

“ Bo you not judge too severely ? ” said the widow. 

“No, no,” returned Herr Yon Kiigelgen; “I know that a 
youthful, gushing fellow imagines himself a genius at the very 

* Historical. — Gerhard and Karl Yon Kiigelgen, in spite of their decided 
taste for painting, were brought by their father in 1785 to study at the Jesuit 
school at Bonn. Notwithstanding this, Gerhard became in time a highly- 
esteemed historical and potrait painter, and'Karl was not less distinguished 
as a landscape painter. 


A Biographical Romance. 


13 


first success ; this pride of genius deranges his ideas of the 
value of things in the world.” 

“ Can this he the case with all who consecrate themselves to 
art ? ” asked Ries, not wholly without a tone of reproach. 

“ God forbid,” cried the Counsellor ; “I am speaking only 
of those who think themselves artists, and are not.” 

“ The young people seem to find great pleasure in drawing,” 
said Frau Yon Breuning, and asked Gerhard and Karl for 
their drawing books. Both hesitated a little, but when their 
father nodded approvingly, they gave them to her. 

And now the whole company, including Ludwig, who in the 
meantime had joined them again, crowded about the drawings. 
They were very pretty, and showed fine talents. 

“ At all events, we shall keep your sons in Bonn,” said Frau 
Yon Breuning. “Be assured that they will always find a 
second home in our house.” 

“ I was about to beg this very favor of you,” returned the 
Counsellor; “in the circle of your family, I know that my 
children will be safely sheltered.” 

The old gentleman now passed on to reminiscences of happy 
hours spent in the Breunings’ house, while the young people 
made each other’s acquaintance. Only Ludwig remained 
serious and reserved. During the whole evening his thoughts 
were wandering in other spheres, and yet fate had here formed 
the germ of the beautiful tie which should unite all these youth- 
ful hearts for a whole human life. Thus does an apparent 
accident turn the destiny of mortals. 

A magnificent sunset at length brought the company together 
again. The whole Seven Mountains shimmered in the Alpine 
glow, which was magically reflected by the Rhine, while in the 
west the sun sank like a queen behind the wooded hill. All 
stood for a long time in silent rapture. At last, Christoph Yon 
Breuning cried out, “ Is not that divine ? who could write a more 
glorious poem than Nature has written here before our eyes?” 

“ You call this magnificent sunset a poem,” one of the two 
Kügelgens said timidly ; “ then it is surely a poem of color and 
light, that is, a wonderful painting, for which God himself has 
mixed the colors and guided the brush. Words can never 
represent what we see here.” 

“And I,” cried Ludwig Yan Beethoven, “ I call it a 


14 


Beethoven : 


triumphal song of creation, — a symphony of symphonies, a 
harmony of the jubilees of the whole world. The allegro of 
life has died away. In the gentle glow of the last sunbeam 
the sound comes up to us in plaintive tones, as in wonderful 
adagio , — a farewell, — a peace, peace ; but light clouds, borne 
by merry winds, play about the departing sun in a joyous 
scherzo , until, with the sinking of the queen of day, all the 
floods of the tone-world are opened and rise to a majestic finale 
in unspeakably-grand modulations. Oh, how it rushes and 
heaves and rings a jubilant unison of creation ! How the 
heart and head are filled even to bursting ! Ah, who could 
render a scene like this ! ” 

“ In its whole fullness, truth, and grandeur, God the Eternal 
alone. But man can, and must, in poetry, painting, and music 
strive for like completeness in expression,” said a gentle voice, 
in an accent almost Austrian. 

All looked around astonished. Behind them stood a man of 
middle height, strong and thickset, in a simple gray dress. 
Out of his large, blue eyes shone the unmistakable reflection 
of a noble soul. His expression was frank and attractive, his 
nose slightly curved, his mouth well formed, his forehead high. 
It was the Elector Maximilian Franz. He had taken a walk 
quite alone, as he often did, drawn thither by the mineral 
springs. 

Arrived at the ruin, he found the company admiring the 
glorious sunset, and earnestly engaged in the conversation it 
had awakened. The expressions of the young people delighted 
him, and, with his usual sociability, he joined them. When he 
was recognized, he rejected all ceremonious attention. Hies, 
whom, as Director of his chapel, he often saw and talked with, 
introduced him to his friends. When Bies named Ludwig Van 
Beethoven, the Elector tapped the young man upon the 
shoulder, and said : — 

“ I think the fine sunset of today will be a sunrise for dear 
Beethoven. I was pleased with what he said. I love a young 
artist full of ideals.. That he is skillful I know from Count 
Waldenfels, who has recommended him to me as Court- 
Organist. Let him come tomorrow afternoon, at three o’clock, 
to my private office, and receive his appointment.”* With 

* A. Schindler, p. 19. Wegeler and Ries, p. 12. 


A Biographical Romance. 15 

these words, Maximilian Franz bowed pleasantly to the com- 
pany, and went on his way home. 

Ludwig was greatly moved. Suddenly, several voices cried 
out, “ The eagle ! the eagle ! ” At this moment the bird flew up 
again from the pinnacle of the tower, and, by a powerful beat- 
ing of his wings, raised himself once more to the heights of the 
heavens, which were now growing dark. 

All looked toward him until he had vanished. Young 
Beethoven looked also ; but, as the whole company now crowded 
upon him with congratulations, he scarcely heard what his 
friends said. He had no words, he only pressed the hand of 
each, and on the whole way home, however joyful or excited 
the young people became, he was silent, and communed with 
himself. 


MAXIMILIAN FRANZ AND HIS COURT. 

Maximilian Franz was the youngest son of Maria Theresa, 
an empress never to be forgotten. He was born on the 8th of 
December, 1756, and soon gave evidence that nature had 
endowed him with an unusual measure of valuable talents, 
clear-sighted wisdom, and a joyous temperament. All the care 
was of course given to his education which is fitting to a prince 
of his rank and station, while his father, Franz I., and his 
mother, Maria Theresa, instructed him by their example in 
benevolence and virtue. 

The young Maximilian received his teachers’ instructions 
deep in his heart and mind. Even in later years he loved to 
go back to his early days, and dwelt with delight on this bright 
period of his life. In his eighteenth year he went on a journey, 
and visited Germany, France, Holland, and Italy. Nothing of 
interest which these lands could offer in politics, science, or art 
could escape his eager thirst for knowledge, or his inquiring 
mind. He returned, therefore, rich in experience of all kinds, 
and became at once the favorite of the Court and of the 
imperial city. Everywhere he pleased and interested the 
people by his noble heart, by his acuteness, and by his modest 
behavior. 


16 


Beethoven : 


Maximilian Franz was a handsome man. He had the fresh- 
ness and health of youth, and his intellect shone out in his 
expression, and love and earnestness in his eyes. He was also 
a most agreeable companion, owing to his many-sided knowl- 
edge and his unaffected cheerfulness. 

Johannes Yon Müller once said, “ One learns from history 
not what is to be done in single instances, for all things are 
infinitely changed by circumstances, but the general result of 
periods and of nations. Fill with your whole soul the position 
assigned to you by fate. Let nothing appear to you so high 
that you cannot attain unto it, nothing so low that you may 
neglect it; then do duties become great, then does the man 
of genius obtain unfading laurels.” 

The government of Maximilian Franz was founded upon 
these principles. Accordingly, he effected in all branches of his 
administration the most healthful change, though he met at 
first with the most violent opposition. With the common 
sense which pervaded his whole conduct, the Elector of twenty- 
seven years went on unmoved in the path on which he had 
entered, and brought back to his country the strength and pros- 
perity which had been sacrificed under the tyranny of former 
rulers. 

Even the shady side in the character of this remarkable man 
grew out of his superiority. The consciousness of his capacities 
and of his good will often made him deaf to the wise counsels 
of the best men around him. It was therefore fortunate that 
his highest officers were wise men, such as the minister Yon 
Waldenfels and his associates. 

Count Waldenfels was a man of distinguished talents, a pro- 
tector and patron of the arts, such as is seldom found. Music, 
in particular, he passionately loved, was considered a connois- 
seur, and could perform with much skill, while, as a generous 
patron, he was ready to support with delight every budding 
talent. Young Beethoven had in his hands the most striking 
proof of this, and even his present position of Court-Organist 
had followed upon the special recommendation and interces- 
sion of Count Waldenfels. Ludwig honored the Count as a 
father A 

Today, after a long interval, he was to see his benefactor 
»Beethoven dedicated to him later the Sonata in C Major, Opus 53. 


A Biographical Romance. 


IT 


again, for Waldenfels had been travelling on government busi- 
ness during the two months since Beethoven had received the 
position of organist, and today young Beethoven was appointed 
Chamber-Musician at Court. He was just stepping out of 
Fürst street, through the great portal, into the castle when 
Father Bies, in company with a young man, turned the other 
corner. The Director greeted Beethoven heartily, and then 
introduced his companion to him as a young actor and singer, 
engaged since yesterday at the Elector’s theatre. 

“ Lux is a splendid fellow,” Bies added. “ A year ago he 
escaped from a monastery, and tomorrow evening you will 
admire him as the best comedian in the world in Ditter’s Doctor 
and Apothecary.”* 

“ You seem,” answered Ludwig, looking at the young man, 
“ by no means fitted for a cloister life. The wag is plainly to 
be seen in your face.” 

“ Who knows whether appearances are not deceitful? Don’t 
rejoice too soon in my heroic deeds. But one thing is certain, 
if, for a single day, I have not been merry, I say with Titus, 
l Diem perdidi .’” 

“But, do not people have a grudge against you for this 
strange leap from the cloister to the stage, and especially here 
at this religious Court ? ” asked Bies, as they were going into 


the castle. 

“ I care as much about that as a May-bug about natural 
history,” and the dry seriousness with which he said it made 
both his companions laugh. Ludwig now took a closer side- 
view of the young man. His was a solid, somewhat small, but 
powerful figure, whose legs might certainly have been straighter. 
There was in his expression a mixture of the grotesque and 
comic, which forced an irresistible laugh from the beholder, 
even when his face was apparently grave. Lux had only to 
move a nostril or an ear, or to give a jerk to the corner of his 
mouth, and the gravity of a Philip of Spain would not have 
been proof against him. 

This, however, was an introduction, a greeting, and nothing 
more, and Ludwig scarcely listened any longer to the conversa- 


*Lux, afterwards celebrated as a comedian at Mainz and Frankfurt, whose 
bust for many years adorned the proscenium of the Frankfurt theatre, had 
actually escaped from a convent. 


18 


Beethoven : 


tion between Kies and Lux, which soon came to an end when 
they entered the concert-hall. This was a summer-house at the 
west end of the castle.* The large, elegant room, with its 
immense chandeliers and Venetian mirrors was still almost 
empty. Only here and there groups of gentlemen and ladies 
were standing or walking up and down in couples talking. 
The sight was new to Ludwig, but it by no means made upon 
him that impression which it would perhaps have made on any 
other young man. It seemed to young Beethoven as if he had 
been there a thousand times. 

Great personalities have a balance-weight against imposing 
external impressions in the consciousness of their own worth. It 
was long after this that Beethoven became a great phenomenon 
in the realm of music. He was still young, and, although he 
was already an artist on the piano, the violin, and the organ, he 
was yet a novice in the musical world. He did not exalt him- 
self in arrogant pride, but there was in him a consciousness of 
slumbering greatness which lent him moral courage, and 
exercised a controlling influence upon his surroundings. 

Already there was something impressive in the appearance of 
the young man. His figure was thickset and powerful, like a 
young Greek, as the Frenchman said, “ Homme tattle d V an- 
tique. ”f Indeed, he lived continually in intellectual relations 
with the Greeks and Romans as if he belonged to them. The 
freedom of thought of the ancient Greeks inflamed his youthful 
heart, and flashed out of his eyes, in whose deep, significant 
glance there was something wonderfully charming. His expres- 
sion was not otherwise beautiful. There was an austerity which 
even the freshness of youth could not diminish. On the other 
hand, when one looked at him more closely, there was some- 
thing regal in his lofty brow, shaded by a heavy growth of 
hair. Ambition in the noblest sense of the word was beneath, 
too much even of firmness, but also a powerful impulse to be 
and to create something great. 

Such a character was of course not pleased with the atmos- 
phere of the Court. He was not subdued by it, but the men 
who were accustomed to breathe there seemed to him horribly 

♦The same which now contains the museum of "Westphalian antiquities. 

t Alexander Oulibicheff : Beethoven, Les Critiques et les Glossateurs. 


19 


A Biographical Romance. 

small. Could lie have judged otherwise from what he heard 
and saw ? Close in front of him stood two young noblemen, 
whose figures, dressed in the latest fashion, even to the 
smallest particular, and whose senseless faces would have told 
enough. Unhappily, young Beethoven was also obliged to 
listen to their conversation. 

But the folding-doors of the main entrance now opened, and 
the Elector appeared, followed by the ministers Yon Walden- 
fels and Yon Forstmeister, and a long line of courtiers and 
cavaliers. The crowd, which had in the meantime made their 
way into the hall, fell at once into motion, and formed a living, 
sparkling hedge on both sides of a broad path. 

Maximilian Franz bowed with his natural friendliness, and 
stepped slowly along the broad pathway, exchanging a few 
pleasant words with the ladies and gentlemen on his right and 
left. 

After a quarter of an hour the concert began. It was excel- 
lently arranged by Kapell-meister Kies, and executed by the 
choir with surprising precision and skill. At the express order 
of the Elector, Ludwig Yan Beethoven, with Bies and Bernhard 
Bomberg, had played in an enchanting manner a trio by Pleyel 
amid universal applause. 

When the performance was over, and the choir was about 
to go, the Elector sent for Bies and Beethoven. As they 
approached him, he stood with Waldenfels in a recess near the 
window. They were engaged in earnest conversation. 

“Well, how does the matter stand?” asked the Prince. 
“ Tell me everything frankly. He gives promise of great 
ability, but I must not, therefore, give the reins to his haughty 
spirit. The singer Heller, a member of the choir, has com- 
plained of him to me.” 

Waldenfels smiled. “ It is not so very bad, your Highness,” 
he said, “ a stroke of genius, but it shows the great talent of 
the young man.” 

“ I am eager to hear about it.” 

“ You remember that the Lamentations of the Prophet 
Jeremiah, which are played every year on three days of Passion 
Week, were to be repeated ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ The Lamentations consist, as your Highness knows, of short 


20 


Beethoven : 


sentences of four or five lines, which are not rendered in a dis- 
tinct measure.” 

“ I know, I know,” said Maximilian Franz. “ In the midst 
of every phrase, according to the choral style of ancient church 
music, there is a rest on one note, which the pianist should fill 
in with a free movement on the piano.” 

“ That is so,” answered Waldenfels. “ Heller was appointed 
to sing. Your Highness may, perhaps, remember how intolera- 
bly conceited Heller is. He was boasting this time so loudly 
of his skill as a performer that young Beethoven, in jest, laid 
a wager that, in a certain place, he would put him out without 
his noticing it, but he would not be able to sing any more.” 

“ That was promising much,” said the Elector. “ Heller is 
very sure.” 

“ He took up the wager, for, in his pride as an artist, he 
considered the thing an impossibility.” 

“Well, and?” 

“ When Beethoven found the right place in the performance 
for carrying out his design, he led the vain singer, by a skill- 
ful modulation, out of the prevailing key into one quite remote 
from it, but keeping, meanwhile, the key-note of the former key 
always fixed, so that our young virtuoso, Heller, could not find 
his way in this unfamiliar region, and was obliged to stop. 
Your Highness can imagine the malicious laughter of the mem- 
bers of the choir, and the anger of the conceited singer, now 
so sadly humiliated.” 

“ Certainly,” returned Maximilian Franz, smiling. “ The 
incident gives evidence of great talent, but he must receive a 
slight reprimand. Such jokes are out of place in office, and 
most of all in the church.” 

The Elector then beckoned to Beethoven. Ludwig obeyed 
without ceremony, made a somewhat angular bow, to the amuse- 
ment of the courtiers, who were standing at a distance, and then 
looked up frankly at Maximilian Franz. This candid demeanor 
pleased the prince. One glance into that eye, at that lofty 
brow, convinced him that he was talking with an equal. The 
reprimand, therefore, ended very graciously, and Maximilian 
only forbade, for the future, similar strokes of genius.* 

* Schindler; Biography of Ludwig Yan Beethoven. Wegeler and Ries; 
Biographical Notes of Ludwig Yan Beethoven. Coblenz, 1838, p. 14. 


A Biographical Romance. 


21 


“Apropos,” said the Elector, stepping up to Ries and Wal- 
denfels, “ you have all played nobly today. My brave old 
Ries may always be assured of my full appreciation. With 
you, too, young man, I have been satisfied. Whenever a place 
is open in my chapel, you may come in as Chamber-Musician.” 

Beethoven thanked him with joyful surprise. 

“ Are you still of the opinion that music is in a position to 
dethrone painting and poetry?” the Elector continued. “I 
think you said something of the sort when I met you a few 
days ago at Godesberg.” 

“ Certainly,” answered young Beethoven. “ I am still of 
the same opinion. Harmony is the picturesque element in 
music, especially when it is represented in counterpoint. Inde- 
pendent forms stand near together, but with decided, opposite 
relations, each one supplemented and placed in its peculiar 
light by the other. Music has its pictured representations, 
which appear to the fancy as forms rich in color.” 

“ But it is still inferior to painting,” said the Elector, “ since 
these pictures are not plainly to be recognized, and lack clear- 
ness of outline.” 

“But I did not say that music was drawing,” replied 
Beethoven, embarrassed. It paints, but with a splendor and 
wealth of color which make us forget the lack of a sharp con- 
tour. Is not an orchestra, in its musical activity, a wonderfully- 
true image of human life, made up of various powers, and 
stirred by changing moods ? ” 

“ He is not wrong,” said Ries. “An orchestral composition, 
in which the voices come in in a lively manner, makes the com- 
poser, even without his intention, a painter of a stirring scene in 
life.” 

Beethoven went on, excited : “ Cannot the musician, even 
without the help of the human voice, reflect with wonder- 
ful truth and depth the wrestling of his own soul ; the change 
and the contrast of moods ; the strife for strength and victory ; 
the sinking back in despair and longing ; the rising of the soul 
to blessed harmony with self, with the world, and with humanity ? 
Thus he is, at the same time, painter and poet. A fine, 
resounding symphony is a painting, and also what a Pindaric 
ode is in poetry.” 

“ Yes,” said Max Franz, “ our great Haydn has taught us 
what can be made of a symphony.” 


22 


Beethoven : 


“ Oh,” cried young Beethoven, inspired, “ glorious as the 
symphonies are which our great Haydn has composed, he will 
yet delight the world with still greater. There are yet other 
strings which may he struck.” 

“According to his opinion, a great future is in store for the 
symphony,” said the Prince. 

“ Certainly, certainly,” answered Beethoven, eagerly. “ Of 
this I am convinced, that the symphony, by its massiveness and 
its universality, is more than any other form fitted for grand 
impressions, for charming and imposing tone-pictures. I even 
maintain that universality belongs to the symphony alone, and 
that for that very reason it must be regarded as the crown of 
pure, that is of instrumental, music.” 

“But may not that be a rash opinion ? ” 

“ Hardly, your Highness,” answered Beethoven, firmly. 
“ The symphony combines all voices ; it unites the clear, sounding 
wind instruments with the more ideal organ. By this means 
the composer is able to create a picture of emotion, of life, in 
all its fullness and strength, stirred to its full capacity. I can 
conceive of a symphony which should present a complete pict- 
ure of life as it stirs in the inner nature, powerfully revealing 
all its aspirations. Then, it goes out and takes within its 
grasp the great external world, with the pains and joys of 
humanity, and this no other form is able to do. Oh, if I could 
only express what I divinely feel within me ! Like the ode, 
the symphony must be able to thrill the soul of the listener, to 
uplift him, to hurry him into the boldest flights. But great 
thoughts are also needed, varied and strongly-expressed 
rhythm, the sudden and striking modulation of a brilliant, 
fiery style which carries everything with it.” 

During this flow of enthusiasm, the beautiful blue eyes of 
the Elector had rested with admiration upon young Beethoven. 
“Bravo!” he said at length, joyfully patting Ludwig upon 
the shoulder. “It is right. He must grow into something 
with such views as these. But, to go back to the thread of our 
conversation. The musician cannot compare himself with the 
poet, for to the poet, above all, the whole spiritual world stands 
open.” 

“And to the musician ? ” asked Beethoven, with shining eyes 
and blushing cheeks. “Has not the musician also entire 


A Biographical Romance. 


23 


freedom ? Has he not an immeasurable domain into which the 
creation of worlds can never enter ? All things twine them- 
selves about the ideal conception of pure music. Yes, it has 
two divine beauties for one, the material, the acoustic effect, 
and the spiritual.” 

“ Well, young man,” said the Prince, “ with such enthusiasm 
in my heart, even I might advance to the composition of a 
symphony.” 

“ Ah,” answered Beethoven, gravely, “ that would be to 
exalt one’s self in opposition to our glorious Haydn and 
Mozart. I feel a mighty impulse to emulate these great mas- 
ters, who fill me with reverence and awe.* Yes, I will confess 
it, this impulse fills my whole soul, but I know how far from me 
this goal yet lies.” 

“ It is true,” said the Elector, “ Haydn and Mozart, as 
artists in melody, harmony, and counterpoint, are indeed hard to 
reach.” 

“ Yet, there must be progress in music. I would hazard my 
life to reach them some day,” cried Beethoven, in his holy zeal, 
quite forgetting where he was. “My aim is then* great knowl- 
edge of counterpoint, the beauty of their thoughts, the perfec- 
tion of their works, and their irreproachable purity of taste.” 

“ So may it be,” said the Elector; “and that you may gain 
this goal, young man, keep your youthful enthusiasm, your 
fresh faith in the good of life, your power of imparting, and 
your ardent inspiration.” 

He bowed slightly to Hies and Beethoven in parting, and 
withdrew with Waldenfels. 


THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 

The Elector’s interest in young Beethoven was greatly 
increased by this last conversation. It soon showed itself in a 
practical manner by the invitation to attend his musical 
soirees. Here the young man had the finest opportunity to 

* Schindler; Biography of Beethoven, pp. 22, 24. Oulibicheff; Beethoven« 

p. 100. 


24 


Beethoven : 


display his eminent talent, and to prove to the Prince his useful- 
ness and ability. 

It often happens that an occurrence, insignificant in itself, 
draws after it important consequences, and an event otherwise 
unworthy of notice gained the favor of the Elector, so that 
Beethoven, though only fifteen years of age, had no longer to 
wait for the appointment of Chamber-Musician. 

The Prince loved Pleyel’s compositions. One evening he 
brought with him a trio by this composer, which was quite 
new, and asked Kies, Bernhard Komberg, and Beethoven to play 
it prima vista. Of course, they hastened to gratify, to the best 
of their ability, the wish of their exalted patron, but, in the 
second part of the adagio , the artists did not keep together. 
This had never happened before, but they played on, notwith- 
standing, with so much spirit, and with such great presence of 
mind, that they came out well and in good time at the end. 

The Elector admired this ' work of Pleyel’s, but when the 
separate parts were examined, it was discovered that, in the 
part for the piano, two measures had been omitted. Beethoven 
had extricated himself from this difficulty in a masterly manner. 
A week later, as has been intimated, he was appointed Chamber- 
Musician to the Elector of Cologne. 

But how his ambition, his almost unbridled desire to create 
for himself, despised these promotions. A strange unrest took 
possession of him. It was the impulse to grasp, to arrange, to 
bring to light the musical ideas which were fermenting and 
storming in chaos within him, yet they still lacked that maturity 
which could make possible their birth in instrumental expres- 
sion, and prepare for the soul a feast of victory. 

He who understands such a sensation knows how painful, how 
narrowing, how depressing, it is ; how this seeking and not find- 
ing disturbs the mind and excites the nerves. No man was 
ever more sensitive to such impressions than young Beethoven ; 
what was worse, they often changed in him into ill-humor, 
making him passionate, hard, and repelling. 

Now came unpleasant domestic scenes, caused by his father’s 
dissolute life, wounding, as with a sword, his natural delicacy 
of feeling. Ludwig’s father was Johann Yan Beethoven, who 
united to fine musical talents a frivolity so unconquerable that 
his good qualities disappeared beneath it. 


A Biographical Romance. 


25 


He loved his wife truly, and she certainly deserved it; 
nevertheless, domestic peace could never find a home in iho 
Beethoven family, for Johann Van Beethoven, by his dissolute 
and extravagant conduct, was always giving fresh cause for 
reproach. His poor wife scarcely knew how to get along with 
her three children, in her straitened circumstances. Ludwig, 
it is true, now began to be independent; but could he afford to 
continue his musical education ? Karl and J ohann were mere 
boys of nine and eleven years, who, by their wildness, and still 
more by their want of ingenuousness, gave their mother much 
anxiety. Naturally, the poor mother’s heart clasped Ludwig 
to itself with redoubled affection. He was his mother’s hope 
and comfort, for, like Frau Von Breuning, she did not fail to 
recognize the precious kernel which reposed in this rough shell. 
But she discovered also, greatly as it pained her, that Ludwig 
felt more at home in the Breunings’ house than in his own 
family circle. The perpetual struggle, the oft-recurring scenes 
of dissipation, naturally repelled the young man, so delicately 
attuned, so sensitive, so refined. 

Such a scene had taken place today. Returning home, after 
a night of revelling, excited by wine and losses, Beethoven had 
raved at his wife and children, like a madman, till his wife 
sank down, wringing her hands and bursting into tears. Karl 
and Johann had embraced her, crying, and Ludwig had run 
away in utter despair. Ludwig’s unhappiness knew no bounds. 
Angrily, he collected himself, and, in order to escape his pain- 
ful feelings, threw himself with close reserve into the high 
waves of the musical world within him, which were ever 
surging. 

He was sitting now in the Breunings’ house, his only refuge 
in hours like this, storming out at the piano, in wild fancies, his 
pain, his eager desire. How the music surged and roared, like 
forest brooks, as, wildly foaming, they throw themselves with 
gigantic force over cliffs and rocks ! how, by marvellous turns, it 
revealed magnificent harmonies, the deep, mysterious sanctuary 
of art ! What a mirror of his emotional life it was ! In tones, 
now gentle and heavenly, and now infernal, joy and sorrow, 
pleasure and displeasure, met and engaged in conflict, like light 
and shadow, like angels and demons. 

If it is true that the genuine artist must be a man “wholly 


26 


Beethoven : 


permeated by the Eternal,” Ludwig Van Beethoven here made 
known his genuine artistic nature. He projected his own sub- 
jectivity into the element of universality, into the struggles and 
pains of all humanity, and when his feelings were exhaling and 
dying away in tones and accords, he felt no longer like a per- 
sonality. He rose into harmony with the great eternal fate 
which controls the world and humanity. 

Frau Yon Breuning listened with amazement. She had never 
heard Ludwig play so. The work with which she was sitting at 
the window sank into her lap; her heart beat violently. She 
could have embraced Ludwig as her own son, but she did not 
venture to interrupt him. 

Little Eleonore and little Rosa were present also, but, with- 
out Ludwig’s suspecting it, they stood in the doorway, holding 
their breath and listening, but their young teacher neither saw 
nor heard them now. The tones flew up as if by magic from 
beneath his fingers, devouring each other, now apparently wild 
and confused, now gentle and soothing, like sounds from other 
spheres. A full hour must have passed in this way. It struck 
eleven o’clock. If Ludwig had heard it, he would surely have 
sounded a piercing discord, for, with this stroke, the empty, 
common-place encroached upon the ideal world which encom- 
passed him : at eleven o’clock he had to give a lesson at the 
house opposite, where the Austrian ambassador, Count Wes- 
tenphal lived. But what thought had he of time or of lessons? 
His double must remind him. Frau Yon Breuning never lost 
sight of the practical. She rose, therefore, though unwillingly, 
stepped behind his chair, tapped Ludwig on the shoulder, and 
said, pleasantly, “ Ludwig, it is eleven o’clock ; you have a 
lesson to give.” A cloud passed over the young man’s brow ; 
he nodded, and went on playing. Five minutes passed, then 
Frau Yon Breuning tapped him on the shoulder again, and 
whispered, “Hear Ludwig, the Countess is waiting. Ho not 
forget your duty.” 

Beethoven paused. There was something almost wild in his 
expression. He passed his hand angrily over his brow, and 
cried, “ This confounded teaching ! I cannot, I will not now.” 

“You will not?” repeated Frau Yon Breuning. 

“I beg you,” said Ludwig, at last, coming to himself. “In 
the mood which I am in at present, it is an abomination, an 


A Biographical Romance . 27 

impossibility, to me to give lessons, especially to that silly old 
Westphal.” 

Frau Von Breuning laid her hand on his head, looking at 
him with her clear, wise eyes, and said, “ The good man has 
always the time and the will to fulfill his duty. Think of your 
good mother, Ludwig. She hopes in you as her only support.” 

Ludwig rose, took his hat, and, with a curt, hard “ Adieu,” 
went out of the door. Anyone who had not known him well 
would have been frightened at his dreadful expression. Indeed, 
Eleonore and Bosa were frightened, but Frau Von Breuning 
only said : — 

“Yet, he is a good man. When the rough shell shall some 
day be stripped off by fate, it is to be hoped that the precious 
kernel will come to light all the more beautiful.” 

In the meantime young Beethoven had left the Breunings’ 
house, but obstinacy was struggling with his better convictions. 
He could not bring himself to go straight across the street to 
the Count’s house. Walking on slowly, he took a long and 
indirect course. All who passed him were frightened. At 
last he forced himself as far as the house ; he had even grasped 
the door-knob; then a wild thrill ran over him. “ No ! ” he cried, 
obstinately, stamping with his feet, “I will not,— I do not like 
it, — I cannot now; ” and, as if the evil one were pursuing him, 
Ludwig ran away, “like a bad-tempered donkey.”* 

This human nature is a strange thing, with its sublimity and 
its weakness. We call ourselves free, and the chains of our 
passions never cease to clank, not even with the best of us, but 
we are free only when we succeed in subduing all our impulses 
to the rule of reason. 

Ludwig was not yet at the age when the complete conquest 
of himself could be expected. Indeed, with him, as with all 
strong natures, it was a question whether he would ever attain 
to it. So, yielding to his mood, he stormed on at will. 

Above Poppelsdorf, a place lying close to the castle Clem- 
ensruhe, said to have derived its name from the Roman villa of 
one Publius, rises a chain of mountains, at whose feet is a steep 
hill, called Kreuzberg, still crowned by the remains of a con- 
vent with the church belonging to it. From Poppelsdorf three 

* Jl. Schindler, p. 23. Wegeler and Ries, p. 18. Oulibichefll, p. 58. 


28 


Beethoven : 


roads lead up the mountain to the sacred places, which are 
visited by large numbers of people, especially on holy days. 
One is a winding path, on which is represented in pictures the 
Passion of Christ. The other, by the side of this, is a broad, 
paved road, artistically laid out between rows of pines. The 
third goes off at right angles, half way up the newly-built road 
leading to the Ahr. Without consciously turning in this 
direction, Ludwig had struck into the first of these three roads. 

In the stillness, he lamented his stubbornness, but from 
obstinacy he would not confess this repentance even to himself. 
As men do, he laid the blame upon fate, and was indignant 
with the power which, through his painful domestic circum- 
stances, put him so often in an irritated mood. Thus he 
reached the top of the mountain. 

How beautiful the world lay here before him. Above the 
wooded line of the nearer chain towered the summits of the 
Seven Mountains. Down the Rhine, far away on the horizon, 
rose in faint outlines the towers of the anicent city of Cologne. 
From the plain opposite the village and castle of Poppelsdorf 
sent up a kindly greeting. Then the eye passed on beyond the 
lofty city buildings, which covered the mirror of the Rhine, to 
the places on the opposite side, with their towers, monasteries, 
and churches, and on till the little city of Siegburg, with its 
ancient convent of St. Arno, completed the prospect as with a 
soothing accord. 

Even Ludwig grew calmer here. The effort of climbing had 
checked the exuberant strength of youth. The repose of the 
outside world was reflected upon the inner nature. The keen, 
pure air refreshed him and cooled his hot blood. Ludwig per- 
ceived his fault, but to confess a fault to one’s self is not yet 
improvement, it is often nothing more than the wish to forget 
it. Only the examination of a fault gives the strength to avoid 
it in future. Ludwig had not so far conquered. He looked 
out defiantly into the glorious prospect, but the ever-echoing 
discord made him soon forget it. Without being aware of it, 
he went on thoughtfully toward the convent. 

In the year 1627, on this most beautiful spot, the Elector 
Ferdinand had laid the foundation of a church. A convent of 
the Lay Brethren was added, and the two soon rose to com- 
pletion. At this time the convent was still standing in a per- 


A Biographical Romance. 


29 


feet ‘condition. The facade of the east end of the church was 
built in a remarkable manner. The portal, rich in architectural 
ornaments,* was in imitation of the palace of Pontius Pilate, the 
Roman Governor. 

In the centre of the balcony stands a statue of Christ, with 
the purple mantle and the crown of thorns. Behind him are 
seen marching servants of the Roman Court, and, on the left 
of the main group, the soldier guiding them. On the left of 
the sufferer stands Pilate himself, in the act of directing the 
people assembled below to the persecuted one. Inside the 
building is a stairway of twenty-eight steps, in imitation of the 
sacred stairway at Rome, and also of that at Jerusalem. 

Striking as all these things were, young Beethoven, to whom 
they had long been familiar, did not notice them. He passed 
them by in a meditative mood. He was thinking of his future. 
He never felt more keenly than today the necessity of tearing 
himself away from his depressing family circumstances. The 
future had never seemed to him blacker. Whence could he 
procure the means to continue his musical education, which he 
greatly needed, especially in the direction of counterpoint? 
Following the impelling power within him, he wished to rise 
to the clear heights of the classics, from which, like golden 
stars, the names of Haydn and Mozart were shining upon him. 
These were his idols in the realm of music, as Plato was his 
ideal in the realm of life. But how could he reach these great 
men, — - the former, if all possibility of high culture was cut 
off from him, the latter, if the surging of his passionate nature 
annihilated again and again that repose which so greatly dis- 
tinguished Plato, and made of him the true philosopher ? Sunk 
in deep thought, he followed, without looking up, the arched 
way into which he had accidentally turned. 

“ Oh, if we could only cast one glance into the future ! ” he 
said to himself, half aloud. “ Do you really wish to lift your- 
self above the level of the commonplace? And what will 
your future be ? ” he went on thinking. At the same moment 
he uttered a cry. 

“ Oh, dead among the living ! ” he cried, horrified, for, without 
being aware of it, he had passed into the crypt of the church, 


* This is still to be seen. 


30 


Beethoven : 


where the well-preserved corpses of many convent Brethren, 
long since deceased, gazed at him, cold and dread. 

“ Bead among the living ! ” he repeated, trembling. 

“ Or living among the dead,” answered a sweet voice near 
him. “It only depends upon how one takes it.” 

Ludwig looked around, and saw at his side a charming girl. 
She was a beautiful, light blonde. Her figure was not large, 

7 ö Ö o 7 

but very graceful. Her expression indicated intellect, the mild 
glance of her pretty blue eyes, sweetness of disposition. Her 
dress betrayed the fact that she belonged to the upper classes, 
and, at a short distance from her, guided by a monk, was a 
large party of ladies and gentlemen looking at the wonders of 
the place. 

Young Beethoven was agreeably surprised by this apparition, 
and, at the same time, so confused that he found at first no 
words to reply. But the young girl said, sympathizingly, “ The 
horrible sight seems to have struck you too unpleasantly.” 

“Only because it surprised me in thoughts to which it 
seemed an unwelcome reply,” Ludwig answered. “I have 
known the place for a long time.” 

“ Then why did the sight surprise you ? and why do you 
not avoid it?” 

“Because I came here absorbed in thought. I probably saw 
your company enter, and followed involuntarily.” 

“ Those must have been deep thoughts indeed,” said the girl, 
smiling; and this smile lighted up her pretty face so bewitch- 
ingly that Ludwig could not turn his eyes away from her, but 
blushed deeply. 

The little blonde noticed this, and a slightly scornful expres- 
sion passed over the corners of her mouth, but since she was 
glad by meeting him to be turned away from the terrible 
impressions which the tomb and its contents had made upon her, 
she continued the conversation by asking : — 

“ What were you thinking about ? ” 

“About my future,” Ludwig replied, growing serious. “I 
had just put to fate the question concerning it.” 

“Which, by your outcry, you answered badly.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because we, here, are not dead among the living, but living 
among the dead. Shall I explain to you this word of fate ? ” 


31 


A Biographical Romance. 

“ Yes,” said Beethoven, for he was thinking that no more 
beautiful lips could do it. But he had not the courage to utter 
these words He thought they would sound like flattery, and 
that his frank soul abhorred. 

“ What is your profession ? ” asked the girl. 

“An artist,” answered Ludwig. 

“ Indeed ? what kind of an artist ? painter, poet, musician ? ” 

“ Musician.” 

“Then you see that one need he no sibyl in age or wisdom 
to explain this word of fate. The artist, especially the poet 
or musician, often preaches to deaf ears. He lives in his art, 
while the world around him, which has no comprehension of the 
sublime, is, as it were, dead.” 

Ludwig was forced to smile. “ You are very kind in your 
explanation ; but I really do not know what would be worse 
than to be dead among the living or living among the dead.” 

“ I think we must feel that here for ourselves,” said the 
pretty blonde, smiling, for she wished to suppress the slight 
shudder which came over her at these thoughts. “ But must I 
stay here ? ” she said, almost angrily ; “ those people may be told 
the uninteresting names of every one of these saints, and listen 
to their history. I prefer life to death, and outside is the 
fullness of life, and a glorious prospect besides. Will you be 
so kind as to show me the way back V ” 

“ Very gladly,” said Ludwig, who was also longing to go out, 
and he went forward quickly. 

Both the young people drew a. long breath as the blue 
heavens smiled again upon them, and they were penetrated by 
the keen, fresh mountain air. With a double pleasure they 
now looked out into the magnificent distance, and listened to 
the song of the birds. It seemed to them both as if they had 
risen from a severe illness, or awakened from a painful dream. 
Fortunately, the company came up to them at this moment. 

“Well, Jeanette,” said a well-dressed, elderly gentleman, 
“you escaped us.” 

“ Yes, father,” answered the person addressed, as good- 
natured as she was unembarrassed, “ for I like it better out of 
doors with God’s free nature than with your dreadful mummies.” 

“Be quiet, Fraulein,” cried a young lady in derision, “you 
were afraid.” 


32 


Beethoven : 


“ No,’’ she answered, “ but why should I receive an impres- 
sion which is repugnant to me ? Besides, father,” she added, 
turning again to the old gentleman, “I met a young artist 
who felt as I did, and who kept me company.” With these 
words she turned around, but Ludwig had disappeared. 

“ Why, he has gone,” she said, almost sorrowfully. “ I 
should have liked to introduce him to you.” 

The company now sat down to a table, which the monks had 
arranged in the meantime, in front of the convent, and had 
richly loaded with eatables. 

Ludwig did not reach home till toward evening. His mother 
sat at the window with her eyes red from weeping, looking out 
sadly into the falling darkness. Anxiety for her husband and 
for her children’s future weighed heavily upon her. 

All at once she felt that an arm was thrown gently about her 
neck, and a kiss was burning on her cheek. It was Ludwig, 
her only joy and pride. How she clasped him to her faithful 
heart ! How she wept out her grief upon his breast ! How 
her son’s wise and loving words comforted and calmed her ! 
The two sat together till the moon rose above the Rhine and its 
gentle beams poured repose over the slumbering world, and into 
their hearts. 

When Ludwig went to bed, he resolved to give two lessons 
the next day at Westphal’s, and to leave off two things, — his 
opposition to giving lessons, and his obstinacy. The purpose 
was good if, with us human creatures, it was not always the old 
story, “ The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” If only 
that great man had not been right when he said, “We are the 
sport of every breath of air.” 


LIFE AND ACTION. 

The life in the Breunings’ house was growing daily more 
beautiful. It seemed as if a happy chance was to collect there 
the disciples of all the arts with their youthful aspirations. 
At least, music, painting, and poetry were now represented. 


A Biographical Romance. 


33 


The first by the whole Breuning family, by Ludwig Van Beet- 
hoven, Eies, Wegeler, and the two Bömbergs ; painting by 
Gerhard and Karl Kiigelgen, who, besides their company, 
practised their favorite art industriously ; and, finally, poetry by 
Christoph and Stephan, the sons of the house. 

Frau Yon Breuning perceived this happy conjunction with 
delight, and made such a use of it as was inspiring and enter- 
taining for the young people. 

“You must form a little Academy of Arts,” she proposed 
one evening, when the young people were gathered about her, 
each contributing something to the general amusement. The 
idea kindled quickly ; first with the ardent Stephan, and then 
with the others. Two evenings in the week were immediately 
fixed upon, when they should meet and arrange some formal 
entertainment, according to rules to be made later. Every 
month a larger performance was to take place, to which a small 
number of friends were to be invited. Besides music they 
must have poems and exhibitions of drawings, in which the two 
Kügelgens, Bosa, and Christoph Breuning were to take part. 
Father Bies received the appointment of superintendent and 
director, and as such was to report, at meetings to be held 
quarterly, the industry and progress of the young men and 
women of the society. 

Frau Yon Breuning reserved to herself the privilege of pre- 
senting a prize each time to that member to whom Father Bies 
might give the preference. 

It was delightful to observe the zeal of these gifted young 
people. There was pleasure for them all in studying and 
practising ; a much greater one, of course, in executing. They 
did not work merely mechanically. Beethoven and the two 
Breunings came out independently as creators, the former by 
composing pretty pieces for the piano, the latter by the produc- 
tion of both serious and comic poems. 

An increase was also in store for the little academy. The 
Counsellor’s widow received a letter about this time from the 
family of a dear friend Herr D ’Honrath, from Cologne. They 
were on a journey to Frankfurt. On the way back, they 
promised themselves a short stay in Bonn ; and J eanette, the 
only daughter, and a dear friend of Bosa and Eleonore, was to 
remain a few weeks at the Breunings’. They all rejoiced, for 
3 


34 


Beethoven : 


their expected guest was beautiful, talented, and amiable. Lud- 
wig did not know her, nor did he prize the opportunity of know- 
ing her. He was graver than ever, and did not admit that this 
little academy, which had originated in jest, had any other 
value to him than that of a new inspiration to accomplish some- 
thing still better, and to surpass all others in a technical and 
creative direction. But he was extremely well-contented in this 
stirring, pleasant circle, and as they all loved him, in spite of 
his often morose and repelling behavior, and his many eccen- 
tricities, he could not close his heart to these good people; 
though, since his encounter with the pretty blonde at the 
Kreuzberg, the pleasant picture of the beautiful girl was 
enthroned in a quiet comer of his heart. 

He scarcely confessed this to himself, but his dreams, his 
little compositions, the tones flying up from under his extempo- 
rizing fingers, told more than his inmost self. He longed for 
something, and did not know clearly how to designate that 
something. Now it seemed to him as if it were honor, fame, 
the opportunity to pour himself out in great musical creations. 
Sometimes he was vexed with himself, and cursed the day 
when he had seen the girl, for it was her image that usually 
called forth in him this mood so alien to his nature. This new 
activity in the Breunings’ house was, therefore, quite right for 
him, but one thing frequently put him out of humor. This was 
the entrance of a young Austrian recruiting-officer into the 
family circle, which had grown so dear to him. 

Herr Yon Greth was descended on his mother’s side from a 
very good family, and some supposed that his father belonged 
to the upper circles. However that might be, in Bonn and in 
the Rhine country, nothing was known of it. Captain Yon 
Greth had appeared to the Archduke Elector with recommenda- 
tions from the Court of Vienna, and had been kindly received 
by him. He also gave him an introduction to the house of 
Count Westphal. Here he often met Frau Yon Breuning and 
her sons, and thus friendly relations were soon established 
between him and the family. Young Captain Yon Greth was a 
fine-looking, cultivated man. At least, in the refined society in 
which he moved, he proved that he could be so. But this oily 
behavior in good society, and his wild conduct in lower circles, 
offended Ludwig’s delicate sense of propriety. Even at that 


35 


A Biographical Romance. 

time one of Ludwig Van Beethoven’s most prominent charac- 
teristics was a sublime purity of soul, above all reproach. 

In this Plato was. his ideal, and, like him, he regarded 
morality as the highest good, itself an end, for whose sake all 
else must be done and desired. The appearance of the young 
officer, therefore, had a painful influence upon him, chilling his 
soul, like the approach of an immoral man upon a somnambulist. 
He said nothing of this either to Frau Von Breuning or to the 
captain himself, for, in his austere way, he avoided him when- 
ever he could. In vain did the Counsellor’s widow seek to 
mediate between them. An instinctive antipathy overcame 
with Ludwig all reasonable arguments, and, in fact, after 
Frau Von Breuning had a knowledge of Greth’s double charac- 
ter, she was not in very deep earnest. She only endured the 
young captain herself because, for propriety’s sake, she could 
not turn him off. 

On the other members of the Breuning family Herr Von 
Gretli made precisely the contrary impression. His rank, his 
beauty, his early career, his checkered character, and the con- 
fidence with which he kept up appearances, all these things 
made an impression. When he entered, with his proud bear- 
ing and soldier’s dress, twisting his moustache, his black, curly 
hair slightly powdered, his dark eyes sparkling with a military 
boldness, and yet the pliability of a man of the world, everyone 
was compelled to admit that there could scarcely be a finer 
young man. There was something fascinating about him, and 
the prudent Frau Von Breuning would have acted more cau- 
tiously if Eleonore and her friend Bosa had not been children. 

Besides, in these visits one could but give the young cap- 
tain credit for extremely-refined behavior. These visits were 
rare, and in fact had almost wholly ceased of late, much to 
Ludwig’s satisfaction, who now went with especial pleasure to 
the house, which had grown to be almost like the house of the 
old times. 

The summer was drawing to an end when Ludwig Van 
Beethoven went as usual one evening to the Breunings’ garden, 
where, during the pleasant season, they used always to assem- 
ble. Here, in the spacious arbor, the little meetings of the 
academy were held ; here many a beautiful festival had uplifted 
and inspired their youthful hearts, and no festival was really 


36 


Beethoven : 


needed, for, as the Breunings’ house lay close to the Rhine on the 
Old Turnpike, the prospect, beautiful as a paradise, was suffi- 
cient to fill with rapture every receptive spirit. Goethe himself 
said of this prospect, “ It is so enchantingly- beautiful that one 
can scarcely resist the attempt to describe it in words.” 

There the glorious Rhine rolls on, bearing upon its proud 
bosom ships of every kind. Down the stream lies the city, 
above whose gables and roofs rises the bell-tower of the 
Minorite church and the solemn walls of the convent. Then 
the eye glides swiftly down to the glistening mirror of the 
stream until the projecting shore on the opposite side limits the 
view. Here wonderful forms seem to rise from the waves; 
they are the shades of the ambassadors of the German kings, 
Heinrich I. and Charles of France, who, once upon a time, 
here, in the midst of the free Rhine, formed a solemn alliance. 
But only for seconds do these memories hold the inward vision, 
for the outer eye flies quickly over yonder to the beautiful ducal 
hunting-castle, Bensberg, and the rich Benedictine abbey, 
Siegburg. Up the stream, following its winding course, the 
majestic crown of the Seven Mountains, that Alpine chain along 
the Rhine, spreads itself out in magic beauty, and, on the right, 
the proud ruins of Godesberg and Rolandseck look down from 
their heights, grave and thoughtful. 

“There can be no more beautiful spot along the whole shore 
of the Rhine,” Ludwig cried out today, as the landscape, so 
often seen, yet never growing old, lay stretched out before him 
in the evening glimmer. He remained a long time in silent 
introspection, breathing the pure air which was blowing up from 
the stream, and leaving the grand impression which this pros- 
pect always made upon him to have its way. 

He did not perceive that he was observed. Not far from him 
the faces of three young girls, one fresher and rosier than the 
others, were looking out from a thicket on the edge of the gar- 
den. “ That is he,” one of these lovely listeners said at length 
to the curly-head which popped out near her, like a cupid from 
the luxuriant foliage. A blush passed over the charming face, 
while the words “ That one ? ” in a tone of surprise, escaped from 
her lips. 

Eleonore and Rosa giggled in their girlish way. 

“ I thought so,” said the latter to the younger of the Breun* 


A Biographical Romance. 87 

ings. “ She imagined him different. He is as grave as his 
Plato again.” 

“ But then he is good,” Eleonore continued, “ aud there is 
more in him than one would think. Only wait till you hear 
him improvise this evening on the piano, then you will hear 
wonders.” 

“ I know him already,” said the pretty blonde, but the 
explanation died away in the direction of the garden, towards 
which the girls were now retreating. 

e £3 

Ludwig Van Beethoven also awoke from his gazing and 
dreaming. He walked on quickly, but a fresh surprise checked 
his steps. The door of the summer-house, which was at the 
same time that of the drawing-room, was decorated with flowers 
and festoons of leaves, which surrounded a white shield directly 
over the door. On the shield, in large letters, arranged with 
care, between tasteful arabesques, were the words “Health and 
happiness to our dear Ludwig.” Underneath was the date, 
“Aug. 25th, 1785.” 

Ludwig smiled, for he had quite forgotten that it was his 
birthday. How much his motherly friend had thought of it he 
had yet to discover. He found here a large company, and 
learned that a little concert had been prepared in his honor. 
The love manifested by this attention touched him deeply. 
Any other young man would perhaps have been proud of it. 
Ludwig, who missed all domestic affection where he ought to 
have found it, felt thrilled by this compensation in the house of 
another. 

But now the concert began. Eleonore and Rosa played a 
sonata as a duet with surprising readiness, and an expression 
which did almost more honor to their youthful friend and 
teacher than to the scholars themselves. Stephan Breuning 
followed with the recital of an original poem in praise of Shake- 
speare, opening with a brilliant passage in honor of the great 
Englishman, and passing from this special point to Ludwig, to 
whom at the close he presented Wieland’s translation of Shake- 
speare, in a rich and tasteful binding. The two Rombergs, 
Wegeler, and Ries were also heard in a quartette, composed 
for the occasion by the latter ; and Gerhard and Karl Kiigelgen 
gave to their young friend two drawings by their own hands. 
The first was a successful portrait of Beethoven, which Gerhard, 


38 


Beethoven : 


with unusual skill had taken, without Ludwig’s knowledge, 
when the latter sat one day for half an hour lost in thought, 
without seeing or hearing what was going on around him. 
The portrait and the occasion were the cause of much laughter 
through the evening. Karl’s work was a view of Godesberg, 
as a memento of the day on which they had met for the first 
time. 

But the festival had not yet reached its highest point. 
Christoph Breuning now came forward, and Ludwig per- 
ceived, for the first time, that the farther end of the drawing- 
room was concealed by a curtain. Casting his eye over the com- 
pany, he discovered that Rosa and Eleonore had disappeared. 
How fine and full of meaning was Christoph Breuning’s poem ! 
It hailed music as the soul of all arts, the mystery of all form, 
as a foreboding of mechanical laws, and her disciples as the 
happiest sons of creation. Then, by a skillful turn, he 
addressed the muses, calling upon them to appear to the friend 
in whose honor this festival had been prepared, and, if they 
found him worthy, to show him the wreath which, through con- 
tinued faithful effort, should one day deck his brow. 

While Christoph was still speaking, gentle melodies were 
heard, the curtain rose, and a general cry of delight greeted a 
wonderfully-beautiful group. The Genii of the symphony, of 
spiritual and dramatic music, adorned with their emblems, and 
represented by Eleonore, Rosa, and a friend, stood around a 
graceful altar on which a flame was burning. Above the three 
rose Fancy, with a lyre in one hand, a laurel-wreath in the 
other. From her head, adorned with a fantastic crown, flowed a 
wealth of fair hair, and her blue eyes sought young Beethoven, 
to whom, with smiles and blushes, she kindly held out the 
wreath. Then the music ceased, and the curtain was drawn, 
amid loud applause from all sides'. Ludwig alone stood as if 
he were fastened to the wall, not knowing whether he were 
waking or dreaming. Was that which he had seen reality or 
magic? for this pretty, graceful figure which stood before 
him, as the Genius of fancy, was the silent ideal of his heart, 
— was that lovely girl of the Kreuzberg, that sweet creature 
toward whom, since that time, his soul had lovingly yearned. 


A Biographical Romance. 


39 


HAYDN AND BEETHOVEN. 

The sun was already high in the heavens when the Elector 
drove toward the neighboring castle of Poppelsdorf in one of 
his state-carriages. He was in full dress; and, with kindly 
affability, looked out from his carriage and respectfully thanked 
those who greeted him as he passed by. The Poppelsdorf cas- 
tle is reached from Bonn by a beautiful avenue, lined with a 
double row of chestnut trees, which enclosed at that time the 
green park intended for the tournaments of the nobility. 

Max Eranz loved the avenue and Poppelsdorf very much, 
and it was a good omen when this beautiful castle was appointed 
the place of meeting for a convention or a court-festival. 

Poppelsdorf was a magnificent building for those days. On 
entering the castle-gate a spacious circular court was seen, 
which boasted an arcade of thirty-six divisions. In the centre 
a beautiful fountain threw its silvery rays into the air. This 
court was the entrance to the marble hall where proclamations 
were usually made, and whose three glass doors, including the 
whole breadth of the hall, offered a glorious prospect over the 
pleasure-gardens, laid out in Dutch and French taste, and on 
towards Godesberg and the Seven Mountains. But the pride 
of the Elector, the glory of the castle, was the grotto, or shell 
hall, surrounded by twelve spacious rooms. 

It is well known what a fondness the last century had for 
fountains, shell grottos, shell temples, and shell caves, from 
Versailles and Nymphenburg down to the gardens of wealthy 
private citizens. Castle Poppelsdorf could not therefore be 
outdone ; and in this hall which we have mentioned its builder 
accomplished something extraordinary. How fairy-like shone 
all these millions of crystals, gypseous spar, which covered the 
walls and ceiling with a sparkling shield of precious stones ! 
Among them were countless ornaments of the finest corals and 
shells. Owls and other birds, monkeys and sphinxes, imitated 
in shells, with wonderful truth to nature, adorned the room. 
These were enthroned above the great folding-doors, and over 
the niches, which were filled with fine divans and immense mir- 
rors. On the right and left of the main wall grottos of rock 
towered up to the ceiling, likewise adorned with shells and 


40 


Beethoven : 


coral, and throwing their water like rushing forest brooks and 
foam from step to step. From the middle of the ceiling a huge 
coral tree grew downwards, stretching its branches in all direc- 
tions, like a chandelier. When its massive lights were burning, 
the effect of it, with the myriad rays reflected from the mirrors 
and crystal, was gorgeous beyond description. 

No wonder then that the Electors residing in Bonn loved 
Poppelsdorf; no wonder that Max Franz liked to choose this 
brilliant place for his abode, either for festivals or for important 
proclamations. 

Such an occasion had induced him to announce a large con- 
vention and a court-dinner to take place there today. What 
the object of it was no one knew except -his ministers and his 
most-trusted Counsellors. A fact was to be made known to 
his countrymen and to Bonn, his beloved residence, whose con- 
sequences for both were not to be mistaken. 

In order, by the careful nurture of the arts and sciences, to 
raise the culture of his people, at the same time to give a new 
ornament to his residence, the predecessor of the Elector had 
erected an academy in the year 1777, eight years before our 
story, and endowed it with the property of the abolished order 
of Jesuits; the academy being supported at the same time by 
contributions from the convent, so that under Joseph II. he 
succeeded in raising it to a university. But the imperial 
papers, confirming it, had not arrived when he was swept away 
by death. We know with what active zeal this idea was grasped 
by his successor. It might be said that the fulfillment of this 
desire made his happiness complete. Imperial papers which 
raised the academy at Bonn to a German university had arrived 
yesterday, and were to be communicated today to all the tem- 
poral and spiritual authorities. 

A great historic deed lay before the Elector; nothing stood 
in the way of his carrying out his plan of making men happy. 
When he arrived at Poppelsdorf the people, who had been 
called to this unusual convention, assembled in the marble hall. 
His ministers were there, with the exception of Counts Walden- 
fels and Von Forstmeister, who had just entered .in their ow r n 
carriages, and were following him. Then the chapter, the 
deputies, from the rank of count and knight, the archbishops 
residing in Bonn, and the delegates from the city and the 


A Biographical Romance. 


41 


academy. All rose respectfully at the entrance of the Prince, 
a joyful suspense expressing itself in their faces. 

The general movement was full of delight when the Elector 
announced the event of the day. Baron Spiegel, from Dessen- 
berg, replied in the name of those present, and in inspired 
words expressed their gratitude to the noble Prince. When he 
had finished, the whole assembly rose again, and sent out three 
times from their full hearts a resounding cheer. 

There was now some consultation, for the Prince wished to 
go quickly to work, and then the professors of the university 
were nominated. A prayer of thanksgiving by the electoral 
archbishop completed the official act, after which they went to 
the castle chapel to attend public mass, the solemnity of which 
was heightened by the execution of the high mass of Sebastian 
Bach by the court choir. After the service there was a pause 
in the ceremonies before dinner, during which the whole com- 
pany might wander without restraint through the castle and 
grounds. The Elector was just going down the steps of the 
marble stairway, which leads from the audience-room into the 
garden, when Count Waldenfels, accompanied by an elderly 
gentleman, stepped up to him. The Prince, perceiving them, 
paused to receive the man, who was dressed in a simple brown 
suit, but whose countenance was frank and expressive. Then 
he said, with his usual affability, “ Whom are you bringing to 
me, my dear Count? Without doubt, a visitor whom I can 
heartily welcome on this happy day. But, who ? — I know 
these features, surely. We have met before in Vienna — Ah! 
it is Haydn, my dear Haydn.” 

Maximilian hastened toward Haydn, stretching out both 
hands, seized both his, and pressed them with genuine Austrian 
good-will. 

Haydn thanked him. He had scarcely expected that the 
Archduke, who had only seen him once, at Prince Esterhazy’s, 
would still remember him. 

“ How could it be otherwise? ” said the Elector. “ He who 
has seen you direct your glorious work in your own person can- 
not forget you. But what happy accident brings you to us 
now?” 

“I am returning from a journey to England.” 

“ Where the Kapell-meister has gained most brilliant victo« 
ries,” added Waldenfels 


42 


Beethoven : 


“They were almost too kind to me,” said Haydn; and, 
called forth by so many happy recollections, that child-like 
smile played about his mouth which was so peculiar to him, and 
which was reflected in all his tone-creations. “England is 
mourning even now over her Handel, who has no superior.” 

“ Her Händel? ” interrupted the Elector. “ I think we shall 
not permit ourselves to be robbed of the honor of calling 
Händel ours.” 

“ Certainly not,” answered the Kapell-meister. “Who could 
have a better right than Germany to be proud of her glorious 
son; but England has appropriated him to herself with such 
love that she may indeed speak of him as hers.” 

“Ho they celebrate his memory there so fondly?” asked 
Baron Yon Speigel. 

“ Yes,” said Haydn, “ quite according to his merit, for Handel 
is the unequalled Master of all masters. What can compare 
with his colossal creations, — the wealth of his ideas, which 
impressed on all his works the stamp of eternal bloom ? Alas ! 
he is far too little honored and appreciated in our good Ger- 
many.” 

“That may be,” answered the Elector, thoughtfully; “and 
I cannot declare myself wholly free from Jhis sin of omission. 
But what is the cause of it?” 

“May I be candid?” asked Haydn, so childlike that even 
the Elector was forced to smile as he said : — 

“Be so always.” 

“Great spirits,” he replied, “are related to the short space 
of time in which they live, as great buildings to the small 
square on which they stand ; we do not see them in their grand- 
eur because we stand too near them, but when once a century 
is between them and mankind, they are seen in their true 
importance.” 

“Very true,” said the Elector; “but could that be the only 
reason? ” 

“There is, alas! one other,” continued Haydn, “and that is 
the envy of his associates, for the influence of an important 
man depends greatly on his reputation.” 

“What you say is very true, but very sad,” answered the 
Elector. However, if you had just been in the chapel, you 
would have been obliged to acknowledge that we pay homage 
to German genius.” 


A Biographical Romance. 


43 


“ I was very happy to perceive it,” said Haydn, and his eyes 
lightened up brightly. 

“ Then you were present at the high mass of Sebastian 
Bach?” 

“ I was so happy to have this great work pass over my soul 
once more ! ” 

“Were you satisfied with the execution?” 

“ It was so successful that it could scarcely be more perfect 
anywhere. In what a masterly manner the choruses were sung, 
— those most difficult and sublime of all choruses, which, in 
spite of their learned construction, wholly familiar only to an 
adept, yet produce upon every soul, however simple, the most 
powerful impressions? How suitable and intelligent the execu- 
tion was from the vanishing pianissimo in the ‘ Mortuorum ’ 
to the jubilee in the ‘Sanctus.’ There was something rare 
about it, a genuine musical inspiration which did not admit of 
weariness.” 

“ You are right,” said the Elector, flattered, for he thought a 
great deal of his choir. “ The ‘ Dona Pacem ’ was scarcely less 
fresh than the ‘Kyrie.’” 

“ Your Electoral Highness must possess a very extraordinary 
Kapell-meister.” 

“ You ought to know him and my whole choir. There are 
very skillful and deserving people among them.” 

“ Who was it, if I may ask, who played the organ so finely ?” 

“A certain Beethoven,” said Max Franz, “a young man, but 
very talented. Do you know that you could do me a favor? ” 

“ I am at your service, your Highness.” 

“ Waldenfels must see that you become acquainted with 
young Beethoven. Will you then have the kindnesä to test 
him ? Your judgment, honored Kapell-meister, will.be a guide 
for me as to what I can do for the young man. Will you 
undertake this duty? ” 

“ With pleasure.” 

“ Very well ; then, my dear Haydn, as I must take a little 
longer walk before dinner, I will leave you now.” 

“ We are celebrating today, as you may perceive, one of the 
happiest days of our lives. Heaven has sent you to us to make 
this day still happier, so you will dine with us, and, after 
dinner, we will have a chat about our dear Vienna.” 


44 


Beethoven : 


The Elector pressed Haydn’s hand, and, bowing pleasantly, 
left him. The Kapell-meister looked after him for a long time, 
then turning to the Count he said, “ lie is a charming gentle- 
man; he cannot disguise his good, Austrian heart.” Count 
Waldenfels smiled, then, turning the conversation, he said, 
“ Suppose we undertake the Prince’s commission at once, and 
look for young Beethoven.” 

“ That is agreeable to me,” returned Haydn. “ I am always 
glad when I can contribute anything to commend a talented 
young man to the world; but, my dear Count, I have one 
peculiarity which you will perhaps pardon.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“When I am to make the acquaintance of anyone upon 
whom I wish to pass a judgment of importance, I like first to 
see or hear something of him without his being aware that I 
am near. Then he is unembarrassed, and I am impartial.” 

“ That can easily be arranged,” answered Waldenfels. “ Let 
us go into the room adjoining the concert-hall, and I will 
wager that Beethoven will be improvising at the piano, while 
the others will be busy with trifles.” 

They did as the Count proposed. Beethoven was there, as 
Waldenfels perceived through the half-opened door, but the 
latter would have lost his wager if anyone had gone into the 
room, for Beethoven was by no means improvising, but stand- 
ing at the window looking out into the distance. 

“It is bad weather,” whispered Waldenfels to Haydn, who 
was standing near. “ Our friend is there, but he seems to be 
in bad humor again, and not to be in this world, and under 
such circumstances, it is doubtful if he will play. If you will 
have patience, I will try my cure. At least, since he is quite 
alone, I hope he has heard nothing of your being here.” 

Haydn nodded assent, and the Count went in carelessly. 
Ludwig remained immovable ; he either did not observe him, 
or did not wish to do so. 

“How are you, Beethoven?” said the Count, aloud, acting 
as if he had seen the artist for the first time. 

Beethoven turned slowly around, but there was something in 
his expression so hard and repulsive that even Waldenfels was 
frightened, and broke out : — 

“For Heaven’s sake what is the matter with you? Has any« 
thing unpleasant happened to you, or are you sick ? ” 


A Biographical Romance. 


45 


“Neither of the two,” answered Ludwig so curtly that any- 
one else would have been offended and withdrawn, but Walden- 
fels knew this peculiar character thoroughly, and, as he really 
wished the young man well, he took no offense at it. He left 
him, apparently, without further thought, made something to 
do in the room, and opened the piano unobserved. 

Ludwig had turned round again, and was looking out of the 
window as before. Then, as if by accident, the Count touched 
one of the keys of the piano, saying to himself, “ What a dust 
there is everywhere ! ” and, moving to blow it away, his finger 
again touched a key, and again a tone resounded. 

Ludwig did not stir ; deep thoughts must have occupied him. 
Had Bach’s mass taken such hold upon him? Were its full 
choruses still echoing within him ? Had the wonderful master- 
piece so uplifted him that his spirit was moving in other 
spheres? Or did the thought pain his striving soul that he 
could never measure himself with this giant of the tone-world? 
Who could tell ? 

Then a few chords from Bach’s mass resounded from the 
piano, and the Count, who had touched them, said gently to 
himself, “ The instrument is out of tune, it must be tuned,” and, 
saying this, he left the room, but without closing the door. 

“You have come back without accomplishing your object,” 
said Haydn. 

Waldenfels smiled, and gave the Kapell-meister a signal to 
be quiet. Both now looked cautiously through the half-opened 
door. At the sound of the chords, young Beethoven had 
turned round, but evidently, without hearing or seeing any- 
thing else that was going on about him, a new and unconscious 
musical relation was now established between him and the 
instrument. 

The full sound of a single tone may excite our nerves by its 
reverberations, but it leaves the emotions unsatisfied. Then 
this tone passes by us, growing stronger and stronger to the high- 
est measure of its strength. The destiny of this tone expresses 
the destiny of our own life, of nations, and of the world. It 
expresses development, power, and decay, ruled by eternal 
laws, but it does not satisfy us to feel the bare weight of these 
laws which embrace in an immeasurable circle all created 
things, then from the dying tone springs forth the living 
octave. 


46 


Beethoven : 


Beethoven had heard sounds that were within his soul, and 
by these were given the impulse to express in tones what he 
was thinking. Looking forward with his eyes wide open, send- 
ing his gaze into unmeasured distances, he now strode slowly, 
almost like a somnambulist, up to the piano, sat down asdf in a 
dream, and raised his hands. Suddenly, it seemed as if, with 
the rushing tones, the spirits of the heights and depths were 
awakened ; then as if the spirit of Sebastian Bach arose, and in 
his most striking singularity, but also in a new way, breathed 
out his thoughts in a magnificent succession of harmonies 
What power, what boldness, in these strides ! what sublimity in 
these combinations! 

Haydn and Waldenfels listened breathlessly, They were 
only Bach’s thoughts which he was introducing into his free 
fantasias, but the style of the composition, the ease with which 
he entered into the spirit of the immortal Master, even the 
flashes of original ideas and variations, proclaimed to Haydn a 
rising genius of very considerable power. All at once the 
player left Bach’s theme, and, following his own thoughts in a 
similar strain, he poured out his inmost soul to the listeners. 

“What is the life of the individual,” thus the tones seemed 
to cry, “if it does not rise from the dust to the Eternal, the 
Divine ? if, blossoming in a single great idea, it does not react 
upon the claims of common life V Is it more than a wave that 
rushes softly by, follows without any will of its own the direc- 
tion of the stream, and then disappears, leaving no trace ? ” 

There was something touching in this questioning and com- 
plaining, which wandered through all the modulations of pain 
and died away in the major chord, held in pianissimo. 
Suddenly, other tones arose, maestoso, solemn, and bold, and 
they cried : “ Rise, then, and struggle boldly for the crown of 
life, grasp the palm, and the laurel-wreath which the hand 
of the Eternal has suspended from the stars.” The tones now 
rise with a transporting jubilee, as the sun rises in the morning 
from the grave of night, brilliant, conquering, all-animating. 

Haydn could no longer contain himself, he hastened into the 
room, and, stretching out both hands to Beethoven, cried: 
“Young man, come to my heart! God has destined you for 
something great.” 

At these words, Beethoven awoke as from a dream. He 


47 


A Biographical Romance. 

looked round amazed, as if he would ask where he was, and 
who stood before him. But the Count stepped up and said, 
pointing to the stranger, “It is our great Haydn ! ” 

“ Haydn ! Haydn ! ” cried Beethoven, and flew into the 
Master's arms. “Haydn, the glorious Master! this is my 
happiest day.” 

They embraced each other heartily, and pressed each other’s 
hands with emotion, — the youth with the deepest reverence, 
the man of fifty-two years, crowned with fame, with sincere joy 
at finding a young and glorious genius. 


A BREAKFAST. 

On the following morning the electoral choir gave a bril- 
liant breakfast to Father Haydn, at Godesberg. Max Franz 
had arranged it with Ries, and had furnished from his own 
cellar the necessary supply of wine. As a patron of art, he 
wished his musical guest to receive every attention. 

It was a wonderfully-beautiful morning, when the large com- 
pany, with their guest in their midst, made their way toward 
the appointed pleasure grounds. The heavens smiled in their 
purest blue, and below, like playful genii, light, silvery clouds 
were sailing to and fro. The earth was sweet with fragrance, 
the morning breeze was blowing fresh and strong, and the 
autumn coloring of the foliage gave to the landscape a peculiar 
charm. 

In this merry company there was no lack of zest for 
life. Papa Ries was there as leader, and the joy of seeing his 
ideal Haydn, and paying homage to him, transformed the man, 
usually so thoughtful, into an enthusiastic youth. The two 
Rombergs, and all the young musicians were there ; there was the 
whole merry choir of opera singers, and singers to the Elector, 
Father Beethoven, Heller, and Lux at their head. On the way to 
Godesberg, then, there could be no lack of noise and uncontrolled 
merriment. This was not quite suited to the plain character of 
the guest, who preferred quiet pleasure to such noisy enjoy- 


48 


Beethoven : 


ment, but Haydn was wise enough to reconcile himself to it. 
He recognized the good purpose to please and honor him. He 
noticed at once, with regret, that young Beethoven was not in 
the company, although, when he took leave of him the day 
before, he had promised him not only to come but to bring 
him one of his compositions for inspection. 

When he expressed his surprise at this to Director Ries, the 
latter shook his head, smiling, and said, “It is nothing, he will 
come. Why should he, your most ardent worshipper, be 
missing from this beautiful festival ? But he is peculiar, often 
outwardly proud, stubborn, and repulsive, but within a strong 
character, giving promise of great intellectual power and mighty 
impulse toward independence, though his extreme delicacy of 
feeling often makes him appear sensitive and irritable. I can 
assure you, you will scarcely find a young man with a more 
lofty purity of soul, more ideal views of life, or a more decided 
talent for music than he.” 

“ I am greatly pleased to hear this,” said Haydn, “ for he has 
already become dear to me, and I hope very much from him as 
a musician.” 

The general merriment now interrupted the conversation. 
Lux entertained them with coarse jokes, poems, and conun- 
drums. Haydn, to whose gentle nature the entertainment was 
quite opposed, was by no means at ease. He was, therefore, 
glad when they reached the ruin. 

The Elector had thoughtfully decorated the place without 
saying a word to anyone. Wreaths and festoons of laurel and 
ivy twined gracefully around the half-fallen walls of the court- 
yard, in which stood a number of neatly-covered tables loaded 
with viands. On the tower was displayed the signature of the 
Master whom they were honoring, surrounded by a laurel- 
wreath. 

When Haydn entered, and a resounding cheer rose from all 
who were present, his eager eyes filled with tears, and only 
with a voice trembling with excitement was he able in simple 
words to express his gratitude. His talent, he added, with 
characteristic modesty, was not his work, but a good gift from 
Heaven, for which he believed it his duty to prove himself 
thankful. 

The breakfast was now served, and Haydn showed that he, 


49 


A Biographical Romance. 

too, could be cheerful. Pure, fresh humor was one of his chief 
characteristics. He was quick to discover the ludicrous side 
of a subject, and no one could spend a single hour with him 
without perceiving that the spirit of Austrian good-will was in 
him. This humor shows itself strikingly in his compositions. 
His allegros and rondos especially have for their purpose, by 
easy turns from apparent gravity to the highest degree of the 
comic, to banter his hearers and dispose them to gayety. 

But Haydn was now in all the better humor because young 
Beethoven had just entered. Ries must sit down on one side 
of him, and Ludwig Van Beethoven on the other side, and then 
all three were happy, but when the wine from the Elector’s 
cellar began to work too strongly, Haydn gave his two friends 
to understand that it would be agreeable to him if he might 
retire with them. So Ries proposed a walk toward the Draitsch 
fountain only a few rods distant. They sat down under the 
shade of the trees, and Ludwig fulfilled his promise to show 
Father Haydn one of his latest compositions.* Haydn looked 
it through with great attention, and the farther he went the 
more kindly was his expression, the more decided and com- 
mendatory were the nods of his head. “Excellent!” he said 
at length. “ I should not have expected this from one so young 
as you, although your organ-playing, and your improvising 
yesterday, justified me in high hopes. There are several places 
which are almost too difficult for wind instruments, but you 
will correct that in time, when the intense earnestness of youth 
is allayed. At all events, you must go on in the path on which 
you have entered, for a great and beautiful future lies before 
you.” 

Ludwig, inspired by this encouragement from the revered 
Master, of course promised in ardent words. 

“ Are you willing to take a hint from your fatherly friend?” 
asked the guest. 

“ Certainly,” said Ludwig, “ every word of yours shall be a 
gospel to me.” 

Haydn smiled at the young man’s enthusiastic manner, laid 
his hand soothingly upon his arm, then he said, “ I can see 

*A Schindler, Biography of Ludwig Van Beethoven, Münster, 1840, p. 21. 
Wegeler and Ries; Biographical Notices, p. 15. Mars; Ludwig Yan Beet- 
hoven’s Life and Works, First Part, p. 18. 

4 


50 


Beethoven : 


that you are a young Titan who would rather besiege the 
temple of Fame today than tomorrow, but it must be so if a 
man, in this cold world, would attain to anything extraordinary. 
But for this purpose self-control is also needed, and that 
classic repose which the Greeks valued so highly in their 
artistic creations. If, then, I may advise you, above all things 
in your compositions, learn to sing, and especially in Italy. 
Instrumental music you can study best in Germany, and best 
of all here in Vienna. Do you know how to proceed in com- 
posing?” 

“How?” asked Ludwig, eagerly. 

“First of all,” continued Haydn, “I try to form my compo- 
sitions as if from a mould. I, therefore, in every part, lay the 
plan for the principal voice, marking the prominent places with 
a few notes or figures. When that is done, I breathe life and 
soul into the skeleton, by the accompaniment of the other voices, 
by transitions, etc. Finally, I never write until I am sure of 
my aim.”* 

Ludwig promised to observe all this faithfully. Then 
Haydn continued, “ I commend to you, as to every composer, not 
to neglect practical exercises. I know from my own experience 
what an aid they are to theory. I candidly confess that I am 
no magician upon any instrument, but I understand accurately 
the power and the effect of all.” 

They now rose, and, as the sounds and wild shouts echoing 
from the ruin showed the utter freedom from restraint of the 
merry company above, the three made their way back, talking 
thoughtfully together. Young Beethoven returned to what 
Father Haydn had said of the repose in the classic works of the 
Greeks. Haydn listened, smiling. 

The extravagance of the enthusiastic youth delighted him. 
He knew what checks life and destiny must ever lay upon the 
hearts and minds even of the greatest of men. But this young 
man’s way of looking at things seemed to him almost too 
Grecian. He said, therefore, “ You are right in many things, 
only I believe that we must hold firmly to this truth. — antiquity 
made nature the starting point, and sought to spiritualize it, 
illuminate it, make it divine. Christianity starts with the 
ideal and seeks to give it a bodily form.” 


Joseph Haydn’s own words. 


A Biographical Romance. 


51 


A long conversation on this subject ensued till Haydn said, 
smiling, “You are an enthusiast for Greece.” 

“ Not so much an enthusiast as an ardent advocate of Greece 
and the Greeks, especially of Plato.” 

“What attracts you to them particularly?” asked Haydn, 
more and more pleased by the earnest manner of the young 
musician. 

“ The idea of beauty which we find everywhere embodied 
among this people,” answered Ludwig. 

“It is true,” said Haydn, “the Greek nation comes forth 
from the chaotic mass of the other ancient nations like a divine 
plastic form among rude beginnings in sculpture.” 

“Is that a marvel?” cried Ludwig, and his great eyes, so 
full of soul, flashed more brightly than before. “ The bright 
sky of Hellas, the luxuriant fruitfulness of the soil, which 
demanded from the arm of man but little of the common labor 
of life ; trade and commerce ; intercourse with other nations. All 
this must have had a wonderfully powerful effect upon the 
active minds of the Greeks. Then, how pure and clear the air, 
how grand and ever new in beauty the broad ocean, how vivid 
the colors of all nature there ; how delicate and symmetrical her 
forms. Must not the sense of beauty among the Greeks have 
been awakened early ? ” 

“ That is certainly true,” said Haydn, his glance resting with 
pleasure upon Beethoven. “ The love of the poetic, the noble, 
the ideal, permeated all things there from the beginning.” 

Ludwig was all aglow. “ Beautiful ! ” he went on, inspired. 
“Men seemed beautiful there, in form and expression ; dress 
was artistic; architecture, sculpture, painting, poetry, were 
sublime ! Beautiful above all these was the culture of the 
mind. Was it not inevitable that the sense of beauty should 
express itself in the whole life, and in all private relations? 
And it was so,” young Beethoven continued, more and more 
animated. “ It was in their games, their festivals, their 
exercises for body and mind, in love, and in religion. They 
refined all beauty and goodness in man up to its highest signifi- 
cance, to divinity, while other nations degraded the idea of 
God to a monster. From this arose those charming legends of 
the gods which still delight us, and will delight mankind as 
long as the sense of beauty exists.” 


52 


Beethoven : 


“ But,” said Haydn, in his quiet way, looking with pleasure 
at the young man’s face, glowing with excitement, w even if we 
accept the fact that the Greeks were superior to all other 
nations in this, I believe we must also maintain that the idea of 
beauty is inborn in every human being.” 

“Yes,” said Ludwig, “it must exist everywhere in the 
depths of man ’s being, but in very many people not a suspicion 
of it appears.” 

“Because it does not come to the consciousness.” 

“ Then the effort must be made to bring it to the conscious- 
ness.” 

“ Are not we artists doing that ? ” 

“Certainly,” cried Ludwig, with an ardent glance at the 
Kapell-meister ; “the name of Haydn, among others, is proving 
that.” 

Haydn made a sign of dissent, but Beethoven continued, 
“For this reason, my art is a sacred thing to me, and no power 
in the world, not the kingdom of Croesus could turn me from 
my path.” 

“ That is a brave young man,” cried Haydn, grasping 
Ludwig Van Beethoven’s hand. “ Hold firm to this principle, 
and you wall climb the heights of art. But is it quite clear to 
you what is to be understood by the idea of beauty ? ” 

“I think so,” returned Ludwig. 

“Tell me,” said Haydn. “I sympathize with you, and so 
you must pardon me if I am a little intrusive.” 

Ludwig thought a moment, then he said, “ On observing 
closely an object which is called beautiful, we find a meaning, 
an intelligence, a thought, on the one hand, and a sensual 
impression, a real appearance, on the other hand, so that the 
interior shines through the outward appearance.” 

“ Good, very good,” Haydn said, nodding pleasantly. “ But 
not everything, by means of wdiich a thought is expressed, is 
beautiful.” 

“ Certainly not,” continued Ludwig, “but only that, which 
finds in a sensual form its completely corresponding expression. 
I will try to make myself still more plain by an example. One 
of the finest statues of antiquity is the Apollo Belvidere, the 
god of the most perfect manly beauty. The beauty of this master- 
piece lies not only in the wonderful form of the statue but in 


A Biographical Romance. 


53 


the fact that the idea of divinity, blossoming in eternal youth, 
finds here its purest expression.” 

“ Excellent ! ” cried Haydn, shaking Beethoven’s hand, joy- 
fully. “ We possess pictures of the Madonna from the middle 
ages, of unspeakable beauty, but the chief charm lies not in 
the features or form, in the expression of the highest womanly 
beauty, but in the fact that these pictures embodied at the same 
time the idea of child-like purity and of pure, tender mother- 
hood and piety. So, in every artistic work, and, of course, in 
every great tone-creation, there must be the ideal, the spiritual. 
The sensual form, whether color, stone, or form, must serve, as 
far as possible, to make the ideal appear in more distinct 
individuality.” 

“ God help you in this path,” said Haydn. “ Only the man 
who embraces art with a child-like, pious soul, and devotes his 
whole life to it, will, under the protection and blessing of God, 
entwine about his head the garland of eternal fame. The 
world will not only gaze at his creations, they will bless him as 
a benefactor of mankind.” 

They had now approached Poppelsdorf, and, as Haydn 
wished to take leave of the Elector, and to give his report con- 
cerning Beethoven, he separated from the young man. Ludwig 
was wonderfully happy, and, feeling that his mood was too lofty 
for the world, he buried himself with it in the loneliness of 
nature. No one saw him again on this or the following day. 


A VOW. 

A long time had passed since Haydn had left Bonn, but 
the meeting with this great man did not pass out of Ludwig’s 
memory. It seemed to him every minute, when the Master 
was embracing him, as if the Genius of music had pressed upon 
his brow the kiss of consecration. From that instant he felt 
himself dedicated to the service of art, and his purpose to be 
her living votary was firmer than ever. New zeal took posses- 
sion of him, and led to bolder development. From that time 


54 


Beethoven : 


forth he was noticeably more earnest, and more profound, not 
only in his artistic efforts but in his character. 

Frau Yon Breuning perceived this with pleasure, for she 
followed the young genius, this genuine German, with motherly 
care and love. Thoughtfulness was Beethoven’s chief charac- 
teristic, and preserved him in his youth from every kind of 
superficiality. The Germans are cosmopolitans, who seriously 
regard the universe as a common abode for a single large 
family, and this characteristic is found in their science and art. 
Penetrating the smallest details, they also rise on the eagle wing 
of intellect to the great whole. This was not now the case with 
young Beethoven, but the tendencies were in this direction. 
Haydn had recognized this, nor had it escaped the keen glance 
of his motherly friend. Now his grand creations stand before 
the world ; let her judge for herself. 

Beethoven, at this time, was a man of German directness, 
integrity, and simplicity, but in his retirement with his art he 
gave himself with passionate fondness to the study of the 
classics of the old and new time, and sought to lay up in Ins 
mind many-sided knowledge. To him the language of art, 
immortal poetry, was the common language of the human heart. 
Therefore, all nations, especially the Greek nation, spoke to 
him, and he - understood them. 

For that reason, his view of the world was always that of an 
artist. He lived and moved, he thought and wrote, in tones. 
Everything became music in him. His outward eye was often 
blinded because his inward eye saw so clearly. The outer world 
vanished before the glory and wealth of the inner world, which 
far outshone it. He lived only in his musical thoughts ; the 
form and inner meaning must be harmonious. Artistic treat- 
ment of the subject, artistic symmetry, were his first demands. 
Empty form he could not endure. It was horrible to him in 
life, in his intercourse with other men, and still more horrible 
in art. He demanded that art should be filled with thought and 
refined by science as, according to his view, these must embody 
themselves in pure forms. So his honest and eager effort was 
directed toward progress in art and knowledge, but a secret, 
often overwhelming, consciousness said to him that only art 
could satisfy him in life, that only in artistic unity of form 
and spirit could he find peace and happiness. 


A Biographical Romance. 


55 


But now it seemed at times as if somewhere else also 
blessedness might be found for him. Jeanette’s wonderful eyes 
were preaching this new gospel. Ludwig loved the girl with 
the fervor of a youthful heart, although he did not know how 
he had come to this love. But who can solve for himself or 
others the problem how love is bom ? The eye alone is the 
betrayer of this mysterious sympathy. It is that by which we 
penetrate to the interior of the heart when lips are silent, and 
words deceive. It speaks when feeling finds no other expres- 
sion, and thought struggles in vain for words. It rejoices when 
the heart is filled to overflowing with the most blessed of feel- 
ings, — “I love, and am loved in return.” 

Jeanette’s beautiful eyes had not yet justified Beethoven in 
such a rejoicing, and yet it had often seemed as if they said to 
him, “ I love thee truly.” In this thought there was for the 
young man, with his perfectly simple, child-like spirit, a paradise 
of happiness. Oh, that poisonous serpents did not lurk beneath 
the most beautiful flowers of paradise! Here was the demoniac 
pair, doubt and jealousy, tor, not long after Ludwig’s birthday 
festival, he had come to the conclusion that his friend Christoph 
Breuning and Captain Yon Greth, who was already repulsive 
to him, loved Fraulein D’Honrath. 

Jeanette, in her innocence, did not notice this. She was as 
contented in the Breunings’ house as a child. Everyone treated 
her with so much warmth and affection that she easily forgot 
her own home, and returned no less heartily the affection 
offered her. Above all things she must be able to laugh and 
joke, and also to love, and she loved the people about her, 
nature, music, and good books. She brought to all the same 
kindliness, but that her beautiful eyes were still brighter when 
she talked with young Beethoven she did not know, though the 
I »lood rushed strangely warm to her heart. 

With Christoph and Stephan this was not the case. She 
liked better to teaze them, as she did her brothers at home, 
and toward the captain she was kind and polite, because pro- 
priety demanded it, and he and she were guests at the Breun- 
ings’ house. 

Ludwig had no claim upon Jeanette’s love, except the ten- 
derness in his own heart, but jealousy and doubt confused so 
sorely his usually undimmed vision that he felt hurt by the 


56 


Beethoven : 


kindness of his beloved to Herr Von Greth, which was founded 
only on regard for politeness. There is a little plant of 
quite a peculiar kind. The gardener calls it mimosa sensitiva ; 
the ordinary name is noli me tangere , or the little ‘touch-me- 
not.’ This wonderful plant has a prickly stalk and pinnate 
leaves, with small leaflets in many pairs. As soon as the 
leaves are touched, ever so gently, they lie together and hang 
down to the ground. 

Young Beethoven was such a ‘ touch-me-not ’ in the world 
of men. All who had any intercourse with him knew this, and 
it now showed itself again. His jealousy and exaggerated 
delicacy of feeling being excited by Jeanette’s politeness to the 
captain, he retired within himself. No power could have 
brought him to the Breunings’ now, and weeks passed away 
without his seeing the house once so dear to him. Every- 
thing seemed dark to him, the day gloomy, the world a prison, 
men contemptible. He did not leave his room, except for 
the duties of his office and his lessons, or, late in the evening, to 
get a little air in the darkness. In this mood the organ was 
his favorite instrument, with its high, ideal, energetic power, 
its elementary objectivity. Often, when he sat playing upon it 
until it was dark, alone in the church, with the exception of 
his associates who were walking about, a crowd of people would 
stand and listen. 

With a force springing from the mysterious bosom of the 
power which moves the world the organ roared on, uncon- 
cerned about the little world, of its despicable machinery, an 
ideal entering into common reality, striding through it undis- 
turbed, with majestic dignity, extending beyond it with power 
of a higher, self-existing, universal force. What sublimity in 
this playing, what power in the volume of tone ! 

“ That is young Beethoven,” the people in front of the church 
said, amazed, but they did not know, they could not under- 
stand, that a warm, loving, longing heart, too delicately attuned 
for the world, was crying out, oppressed by mighty pains, but 
that, at the same time, a powerful mind, angrily shaking off 
these pains, as a man brushes off the tears which flow against 
his will, was rising through grief above the dust of the earth to 
greatness, depth, world-moving power. 

As the organ supplies to the weak powers of the voice, and 


A Biographical Romance. 


•57 


to simpler instruments, a steady basis of sound, and fullness of 
harmony, which lends strength to the whole movement from its 
deep and massive proportions, so Ludwig V an Beethoven drew 
from this flight toward the highest in art and thought new 
strength and unity. 

This very day he had been playing a long while on the great 
organ in the Minster, formerly the first church of the Arch- 
bishop of Cologne, next to the world-renowned cathedral. As 
the waves of tone rushed through its spacious halls with greater 
and greater power, and his whole soul with its pains and its 
pleasures, its loves and its longings, its struggle toward great- 
ness, and its worship of beauty and divine sublimity, expressed 
itself in wonderful harmonies, it suddenly seemed to him as if 
the whole harmony of the world was sounding with the tones 
of the organ, as if his playing was no longer in one-sided sub- 
jectivity, but had blended with the mighty tone-forces of the uni- 
verse, and was soaring upward, encompassed and upheld by 
these. 

He touched the keys with still greater inspiration, and the 
tones knelled out with increasing majesty, and filled the whole 
cathedral. It seemed to him as if he were no longer playing 
himself according to his own will, and of his own strength, but 
as if the mind of the Eternal was filling him, and leading his 
mind, and he was only its instrument. It roared on with 
splendor, with sublimity, and dignity, and beautiful modula- 
tions revealed themselves in the wealth of harmony, so grand 
and yet so simple, so unconstrained, like the development of an 
organic nature. In these tone-spaces, extending always deeper 
and farther, not only was the musical strain moving with sub- 
lime grandeur, but the single melodies were resolving them- 
selves into a power and inexhaustibleness, attainable only on 
such sacred ground and in such a mood. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven trembled with emotion. He gazed 
into the depths of the church, sending flashes of inspiration into 
the twilight which surrounded him. His sharply-marked feat- 
ures gave to his face a commanding, almost regal, expression, 
his rich hair hung in waves about his head like the mane of a 
young lion. With the newly- swelling harmonies it seemed to 
him as if spiritual forms appeared before his eyes, like that 
lovely group which he had seen at his birthday festival. 


58 


Beethoven : 


They were the Genii of spiritual and dramatic music, and again 
the Genius of fancy hovered over him, showing from afar the 
palm of future greatness. But the shining face did not this 
time wear the features of Jeanette, but of a lofty priestess of 
divine art. As Ludwig, enchanted, looked up to the Genius, it 
seemed to him as if he heard the words, “ Tear earthly love out 
of thine heart. Thou hast pledged thyself to me, the Genius of 
music, and to me alone shalt thou belong.” 

Then there was a cry in the organ as of pain, and again a 
shout of triumph, and suddenly the tones flew out from all the 
registers, and it resounded in solemn chorus like a sacred oath, 
a vow. Ludwig cried aloud, “Yes, yes, I renounce all earthly 
love, and will belong to thee alone, will worship only thee, 
divine, heavenly music.” As he played on his resolve was 
fixed, and his spirits grew lighter, till, with a few powerful 
accords, he sprang up like a regenerated creature. He had 
made a resolution. After so long an interval he would go on 
once more to the Breunings, and meet Fraulein I) ’Honrath 
pleasantly, but with a quiet heart. 

When lie left the church a crowd of people stood in front 
of it, who, as soon as they perceived him, bowed and stepped 
back reverently before him. Ludwig returned the greeting 
mechanically, although he was not conscious of what he was 
seeing or doing. His mind was upon his resolution. 

When he approached the Breunings’ house a row of brightly 
lighted windows greeted him. He was astonished, not so much 
at this sight, which was not very unusual, but that he could be 
so much of a stranger here. Before he went in he wished to 
know what was going on, and whether visitors were there. 
He was, therefore, glad to meet Heinrich, the old house-servant, 
just at the door, but it touched him deeply when the old man, 
to whom he had been almost like a son, was half frightened at 
seeing him, and cried out, astonished : — 

“ Jesu Maria , Herr Beethoven ! ” 

“Is it anything new? ” said Ludwig. 

“Indeed ! ” answered the old man, “you have not been here 
for weeks.” 

“Very true,” answered Ludwig, gloomily, “But what is 
going on up there ? ” 

“What is going on?” asked the old servant, astonished. 
‘"Have not the young gentlemen told you? ” 


A Biographical Romance. 


59 


“ No,” answered Ludwig, shortly. 

“It is not possible ! ” 

“ I tell you, no ! I have not spoken to them for a long 
while.” 

“ Then you do not know ? ” 

“I know nothing of what has happened here.” 

“That Herr and Frau D’Honrath from Cologne are here?” 

“And?” 

“And that Jeanette’s betrothal is celebrated today? ” 

Ludwig stood as if benumbed. “To whom?” he asked, 
and the words almost died away on his tongue. 

“To Captain Yon Greth,” said the old servant. 

“To whom?” Ludwig repeated, turning his ear toward the 
old servant, as if he had not heard truly. 

“ To Captain Yon Greth,” the old man said again. 

“ And Fraulein D’Honrath?” 

“ Struggled terribly in the beginning, but when his Electoral 
Highness himself came to the father as intercessor for the 
captain, she yielded to the wishes of the captain and of her 
parents.” 

“But she is almost a child still.” 

“ For that reason only the betrothal is today. The mar- 
riage is to take place next year.” 

“Is Fraulein Jeanette gay and happy?” asked Ludwig, 
eagerly. 

“ I think so,” said the old servant, with a beaming face. 
“ She pouted and cried a little at first, but then suddenly it 
Was fair weather again, and now it is a pleasure to hear her 
laugh and sing. The captain is a fine, stately gentleman, too, 
well respected by the Elector and Emperor.” 

“ And Frau Yon Breuning ? ” 

“ The good lady and Herr Christoph don’t like the affair 
very well, but what was to be done ? Everything went so 
quickly. Between us,” added the old man, in a confidential 
tone, leaning towa'rd Ludwig’s ear, “between us, I think Herr 
Christoph had an eye on the young lady, too. The good young 
gentleman looks very pale since the affair was settled, and has 
grown so quiet you would not know him at all.” 

“Good-night, Heinrich,” said the young man abruptly. A 
more delicate ear than the old servant’s would easily have per- 


60 


Beethoven : 


ceived that this tone was meant to conceal emotion, but Heim 
rich was only astonished that the young friend of the family 
was turning away so soon. 

li Jesu Maria” he cried, “are you going away so soon?” 

Ludwig nodded. 

“And not going up? They would all be so very glad. 
You have no idea how often they have asked after you.” 
“Who?” 

“Why all, except the gracious lady. ” 

“Was Frau Yon B reunin g angry with me?” 

“No, but she said ” 

“What?” 

“You will be offended with me.” 

“Certainly not.” 

The old man smiled good-naturedly, then shook his finger 
menacingly, and said, “ You had your rhapsody again, and so 
they must let you alone.” 

“ Good-night,” Ludwig said again. 

But Heinrich held him fast and cried, “Dear Herr Van 
Beethoven, you have taken my gossiping ill?” 

“No,” said Ludwig, gently, “it is but the truth.” 

“Yet, you are going?” 

Beethoven made no farther reply. Fie held out his hand 
silently to the old man, pressed his and went. Ludwig felt 
strangely. Sooner would he have expected the heavens to fall 
than Jeanette’s betrothal to the captain. Had these beautiful 
eyes which looked so faithful deceived him. “ Enough,” he 
said to himself in a rude, hard tone ; “it is a sign from Heaven, 
and I should have been prepared for it.” But this renuncia- 
tion cost the young man a hot and heavy struggle. If it had 
been voluntary, and he had seen Jeanette as before at the 
Breunings’ house, a lovely creature, charming everyone, there 
would have been something inspiring in this very renunciation 
in favor of art, his lofty spiritual beloved, but the thought that 
she was in the captain’s arms destroyed this painful charm. 
Fate had stepped before him too sternly and coldly, and taken 
him too quickly at his word. 

He rushed out into the night, which had long lain upon the 
earth deep and silent, and feeling that he must oppose this 
powerful emotion by strong outward impressions, he sought the 


A Biographical Romance. 


61 


Rhine. There, close by the river, in the upper part of the city, 
he sat alone on a rock which projected far into the stream. A 
deathly stillness reigned around. Only the rushing of the 
mighty river, which rolled majestically on in broad volumes, 
pierced through the night and filled Ludwig Van Beethoven’s 
soul with a sense of grandeur. Incessantly, these colossal 
masses of water flowed on in calm repose. Incessantly, with 
ever equal motion, wave followed upon wave, coming and going 
swiftly, like human life. Incessantly, with ever equal majesty, 
Father Rhine swept hjs w T aves on to the sea. 

Yonder lay the dreaming city like a black monster; its 
machinery stood still, its noise had died away, and the men in 
it, with their wishes and hopes, their passions and conflicts, were 
mute in the arms of sleep. The pulse of public life had ceased 
to beat, and all the walls, houses, and streets were only a great 
stone coffin. 

The waves which beat against its w r alls whispered mysteriously 
the legends of the deep, of the treasures which had lain under 
them for thousands of years ; of the human bones which, lonely 
and forgotten, were bleaching there below. Ludwig listened 
and listened, for now it seemed to him as if the waters were 
gurgling melodiously and singing a wonderful song. 

Then he made a vow not to forget this day, but to dedicate 
heart and soul, and mind, and his whole strength and love to 
music. 


A CARNIVAL. 

The great marble hall of Poppelsdorf Castle was glistening 
in fairy-like magnificence, for Max Franz was giving a brilliant 
fete as a celebration of the carnival, and Count Von Walden- 
fels, in conjunction with several artists, had devised something 
truly beautiful. 

At the first glance into the marble hall everyone was sur^ 
prised at the splendor of the decorations. Immense palms, 
taken from the Elector’s hot-houses, stretched up to the ceiling, 
and transported the vivid imagination to the paradises of the 


62 


Beethoven : 


southern zones. From the galleries tasteful draperies hung 
down in gentle folds, and between the double rows of pillars 
which supported the temporary galleries, and of which each one 
was twined with garlands, shone large, lighted balloons of vari- 
ous colors. Besides these, the immense chandeliers, consisting 
of countless prisms and pendants, were pouring put a sea of 
light, which -was broken into all colors by the thousands and 
thousands of surfaces. 

The most charming sight was a rotunda, on all sides of 
which were verandas, shaded by fragrant shubbery, out of whose 
fullness of foliage and flower melons and other fruits of the 
south peeped forth enticingly. In the back-ground an excel- 
lent painting of the Bay of Naples was displayed in a bright 
light. The glorious city, bordered by Vesuvius and St. Elmo, 
produced a magic effect, and the impression of the whole was 
heightened by the lively play of color among the crowded 
multitude 

“Wonderful! it is indeed wonderful!” the melodious voice 
cf an elegant female domino was saying at this moment. Her 
garment of sky-blue silk sparkled with rich embroidery, and 
her beautiful neck was surrounded by a costly ornament of 
pearls and diamonds. “Wonderful!” repeated the domino 
again, casting a glance from the rotunda upon the whole scene. 
“ I must confess that I have seen nothing more beautiful even 
in Vienna.” 

These words were addressed to another female mask, whose 
domino of rose-colored silk was noticeable for its simplicity, 
and upon whose arm the sky-blue mask was hanging. 

“I can scarcely believe that,” said the simpler of the two. 
“ You, fortunate creature, have been present at so many court 
fdtes .” 

“ Of course,” answered the other. “ My husband’s rank has 
given me the entree there, though, you know, I have by birth 
no right to appear at Court.” 

“ Yet you prefer our fetes to those of the Court of Vienna? ” 

“As far as the arrangement and the taste of the decorations 
are concerned, decidedly, although greater splendor may be 

displayed there, and then ” 

“Well?” 

“How much more affable people are here than at the Court 


A Biographical Romance. 63 

of Vienna ? Oh, my Rhineland, it is surely very beautiful 
here.” 

“Then you have not quite forgotten us and home? That is 
good of you.” 

“If I had, why should I have come here? For a long while 
my husband would not let me make the journey, but, at last, he 
saw that home-sickness was breaking my heart, and so he con- 
sented to a short visit to my parents.” 

“ How they must have rejoiced to see their dear daughter 
again after three years!” 

“They were very happy, and it was hard for me to tear 
myself away from them for a few days to seek out my dear 
friends here.” 

“ We thank you most heartily for coming. You were always 
a little bit of my good mother’s heart.” 

“As she was to me a second mother, I believe there are few 
such excellent women.” 

“Yes, indeed, what do we not owe to her?” 

“ How well she understands keeping young, always spreading 
life and joy around her like the sun. Ah, Eleonore, I can 
never forget the tone of youthful good-nature and unrestrained 
gayety which always prevailed at your house. How happy we 
were in those days?” 

“ Do you remember the excursion to Karpen, which we made 
in my brother’s vacatiou?” 

“ Certainly, certainly ; I was speaking of it to Christoph 
only a short time ago. He grew enthusiastic at the recollec- 
tion.” 

“ Which is for him a happy and, at the same time, a painful 
one.” 

“Hush! Eleonore.” 

“ He was really very fond of you. We first noticed it when 
you left us with your parents, just after your betrothal, but 
this trial brought in its train one good thing for Christoph.” 

“ What was that? ” 

“ The pain and the silent renunciation consecrated him for 
a poet.” 

The sky-blue domino was silent for a few minutes, then its 
wearer nestled closer to her masked friend and asked, “ Where 
is he?” 


64 


Beethoven : 


“He? who?” 

“ Why,” said the beautiful figure in the blue domino, lower- 
ing her head a little, which was gracefully decked in a bonnet 
with a snow-white ostrich plume and a sparkling diamond 
agraffe, and stroking with her fan the costly point-lace of her 
domino, “he, — Ludwig.” 

“Ah, yes, indeed,” said the other. “You will see him with 
us still. He is the same old friend, only a little more serious 
than he used to be. Besides, he no longer sees or hears any- 
thing but music, and he composes magnificently.” 

“I have heard nothing of him since the year of my marriage.” 

“Then you will hear something all the finer from him this 
evening. A knight’s ballet is to be performed by the nobility.”* 

“You spoke of it to me.” 

“He has written the music for it. Magnificent pieces are to 
be presented, — a minnelied, — a German song and a drinking 
song.” 

“A minnelied?,” repeated the blue domino, gently. Does 
he understand love? — does he love?” 

“ Oh, there is no more ardent lover,” answered the young 
lady in rose color, with a slight laugh. 

“What!” cried the other; but she quickly restrained her- 
self, and said, with apparent composure, “ Whom ? Ah, well — ” 

But, at this moment a flourish of trumpets announced the 
arrival of the Court. 

“ Pray tell me whom ? ” repeated the blue domino. 

The brilliant assembly of masqueraders, which had been 
fluctuating in a chaotic mass, now separated, and permitted the 
Elector, bowing pleasantly, to pass with his train through an 
open way to his elevated seat. 

“Whom does he love?” whispered the light-blue domino 
once more. Then she added, apologetically, “ It really interests 
me;” but it seemed as if her voice was trembling.’ A good- 
natured laugh was heard from beneath the mask of the rose- 
colored domino, then she leaned forward to her friend’s ear, and 
whispered, “Musica . Are you at rest now?” 

At the same moment the orchestra began, and, at a sign from 
the dancing-master, the folding-doors of the adjoining room 
opened, and a masked procession entered, which made its 


*Marx; Beethoven’s Life and Works. Part First, p. 11. 


A Biographical Romance. 65 

way, singing, leaping, and joking, to the seat of his Electoral 
Highness. 

There were more than four hundred masqueraders who had 
joined the picturesque group. At the head appeared Neapolitan 
fishermen, carrying on their shoulders the tools of their trade. A 
merry company of lazzaroni followed, singing the songs of their 
home to the sound of a mandoline. Then came pretty Neapoli- 
tan women, with flowers and fruits; and these were followed 
by the chariot of Prince Carnival, drawn by eight fools. But 
the Prince was not alone. His high functionaries, clothed in 
the emblems of their rank, followed him on the journey from 
Italy to the Rhine, making a magnificent display. 

The Prince took his seat on the throne erected for him, the 
trumpets sounded, the doors of the suite of rooms on the right 
opened, and, sparkling in gold, silver, and precious stones, thirty- 
two couples approached the Elector. They were members of 
the nobility, clothed in the artistic dress of the middle ages. 
The music which resounded from the electoral choir charmed 
all present, even more than the splendor and taste of these 
toilets, more than the beauty of the youthful pairs. It was a 
march, composed by the young musician, Ludwig Van Beet- 
hoven.* 

What a magnificent tone-creation it was, controlling all 
things by its penetrating rhythmic power ! To a keen observer 
a moment of psychologic interest was here presented. In the 
midst of the superficial delight suddenly came a profound 
silence. All followed involuntarily the rhythm and tones of 
the music, which was now celebrating a mighty triumph over 
all outward impressions, while, by this almost unconscious 
yielding to the power of tone, they moved on as it were with 
it, and were put at once in a mood of festive gayety. What 
full, rich harmony! What measured, clear-stepping melody, 
rising with quick variations to its proper place ! 

Even Maximilian was electrified, and bowed to the Prince of 
Furstenburg, who sat near him, expressing his approval. The 
light-blue domino, on the other hand, only nestled closer to her 
masked friend, and whispered, “Oh, how beautiful!” 

But the action previously planned and continued gave no 
time for calm enjoyment. Max Franz rose and received the 

* Wegeler and Ries, p. 16. Schindler, p. 22. 

s 


66 


Beethoven : 


charming couples kindly. After a short ceremonious greeting, 
accompanied by music, a greeting which consisted merely of 
one of those stately bows which have descended to us from 
our grand-parents, the couples took their places for a solemn 
minuet. The young composer surprised the multitude by an 
excellent thought. He introduced into the second refrain a 
lively scherzo , thus destroying the stiffness of the performance. 

The merriment continued, and when a German song and a 
drinking song were finely executed by members of the chorus, 
and a minnelied by one of the court-singers, all followed the 
example of the Elector, and broke out in a continuous storm of 
applause. 

At this moment the two female dominos went into the adjoin- 
ing room. “Hush!” said the one in sky-blue. “Your 
brothers will not find us easily here. We must chat together 
a little longer.” 

“If mamma does not mind our being so much alone,” said 
the other, timidly. 

“Dear heart,” cried the other, smiling, “you forget that you 
are under the protection of a married woman, and at a carnival 
ball. But I will not oppose you. Answer me a few more 
questions, and I will go back with you then to your mother and 
brothers.” 

“What are these questions?” 

“As we were passing the orchestra, a little while ago, I saw 
Ludwig from a distance.” 

“Did you?” 

“He did not look cheerful, in spite of the pleasant reception 
of his composition; on the contrary, he seemed to be graver 
and more depressed than he was three years ago.” 

“Yes, he is so just now more than ever.” 

“Why?” 

“ For three reasons. In the first place, the unhappy circum- 
stances at his father’s house weigh upon him more than ever. 
His father’s mode of life makes him, whose morals are so pure 
and noble, quite unhappy.” 

“Your dear friends, who have always been his guardian 
angels, will certainly be such now.” 

“ At least, he feels happy in our family circle, and forgets 
for a time what is painful in his situation. But there is another 


A Biographical Romance. 


67 


and weightier care which troubles him at present. Ludwig 
feels that he is born for something great in music, but he 
knows, too, that his defects are still infinite, that he needs cul- 
ture by travel, and by the study of harmony and counterpoint. 
He has had reason to hope that the Elector would send him for 
several years to Vienna for that purpose, but month after month 
and year after year pass without a decision, — -even now they 
are talking of some competition.” 

“Can no one influence the Elector?” 

“ Who can do it if his faithful protector and patron, Count 
Waldenfels, does not succeed? Influential people must work 
against him in secret. But, I beg you, dear Jeanette,” said 
the rose-colored domino, in a tone indicative of anxiety, “let 
us go back now to my mother and brothers.” 

“I am willing,” answered the young wife of General Von 
Greth, for it was she whom the sky-blue domino concealed, and 
both went, arm in arm, through the rooms with the brilliant 
throng, looking for the familiar masks. But it was hard to 
keep together. The wild crowd now whirled past each other 
Avith such force that a single person could not stand against 
them. Whole troops of clowns passed through the suite of 
rooms, laughing and joking, and, true to their character, acting 
Harlequin and Punchinello in the most approved manner. No 
one was secure against their wit. Now they were here, now 
there ; now they crowded little groups together in circles, which 
they formed by stretching their hands out to each other ; again, 
they cut off individuals from their parties, and, shouting and 
laughing, hurried off with their captives. 

Unhappily, the whole swarm of these clowns had just pressed 
into the rooms which Jeanette and Eleonore were obliged to 
pass through in order to reach Frau Von Breuning and the 
brothers. Like snow-flakes chased by the wind they flew in at 
the wide-open doors, and, amid their merry shouts, the other 
masks sought to save themselves. The two female dominos 
Avere driven apart at the first fright, each one flying as well as 
she could from the mad wit of the lawless crowd. Eleonore 
succeeded by crouching in a corner, like a timid roe, but only to 
see how the clowns, with the speed of lightning, formed a chain 
and carried off her poor friend in triumph. The next moment 
their shouts over their charming booty could be heard from a 


68 


Beethoven : 


distance, so that Eleonore, with tears in her eyes, saw the coil 
of human beings disappear at a curve in the gallery. At the 
same moment the laughing, shouting multitude came upon the 
Elector, who, with Prince Von Furstenburg and several other 
gentlemen at his side, was walking along in a cheerful mood. 

No one could help laughing at the approach of this comic 
group, but the clowns understood how far they might venture. 
They rolled the mass quickly on until quite close in front of 
the Elector; then they started asunder like a bursting piece 
of fire-works, leaving the blue domino standing bewildered and 
confused before his Serene Highness as a startling centre. 

But the Elector was quickly composed. “Come here, my 
child,” he said, smiling pleasantly; and, as she hastily followed 
her deliverer, he pressed unobserved upon a machine, known 
only to himself, and countless jets of water flew in all directions 
in a broad bow, and so showered the clowns, who were flying 
hither and thither, that they rushed out of the hall as if mad, 
with horrible, piercing shrieks. 

The Elector and his companions had, of course, been spared 
by the water-jets, and the terror, the confusion, the clowns’ 
attempt to save themselves, and their final flight, had been so 
unusually comic that they all shook with laughter. 

“That was a healthful baptism,” said the Elector as he sank 
down quite exhausted, “ and a brilliant satisfaction for you, my 
pretty masquerader.” 

“For which I thank your Electoral Highness sincerely from 
my heart, “replied the liberated girl, “for the young rascals 
deserved it. It will cool their impertinence a little.” 

“I only regret,” Max Franz continued, “that you, my 
charming friend, have had so many misfortunes this evening.” 

“How?” answered the domino, unembarrassed. “To be 
rescued by his Serene Highness is the highest and best fortune 
which could befall me.” 

“Look at the little flatterer,” said the Elector, smiling. 
“But, dear child, you do not consider that you have fallen 
into a new imprisonment.” 

“Into that of the most noble knight of the whole Rhine, ” 
replied the lady, with a graceful bow, “beneath whose fatherly 
protection everyone feels happy.” 

“ Father !” laughed the Elector; “how artful. But today 


A Biographical Romance. 


69 


we know nothing of the Father of the Country. I, on the con- 
trary, will play the gallant knight who does not give up quickly 
such rare and precious booty. I pray you, pretty mask, take 
your place at our side, and you, too, gentlemen. We must 
celebrate this excellent joke with an extra draught.” 

Then the Elector beckoned to a servant, and whispered some- 
thing in his ear. The latter disappeared, but came hack 
immediately with a large golden beaker, which he respectfully 
presented to the Prince on a chased plate of the same pre- 
cious metal. 

The general’s wife, perceiving that she could not properly 
refuse the invitation of the Prince, had taken her seat, and the 
gentlemen had followed her. The Elector kept everyone far away 
from the entrance to the shell hall with his foot, for as soon as 
the masqueraders approached the open door, a pressure of his 
left foot opened the flood-gates again, and the water-jets flew 
up as if by magic. 

“ You see,” he said, turning to the lady, “I have, in spite of 
my divine office, learned a little of witchcraft. The spot on 
which we stand is consecrated, and no one can tread upon it.” 

“I believe,” interrupted Prince Von Furstenburg, “we 
might say, more correctly, the position which your Electoral 
Highness fills is consecrated not only in the church but in 
history and in society, — in the latter by a charming affability.” 

“Which my noble friend displays in no smaller measure,” 
said the Elector, laughing. 

An ingenious and witty conversation now arose between the 
Prince and the blue domino. The latter knew so well how to 
increase the interest that the Elector at the end offered every- 
thing to know who this lady was. But the domino kept her 
disguise secure. 

“Then,” said Max Franz, brightly, “we must be satisfied 
with the charm of the mysterious since you withhold from 
us the charm of your real appearance. But, my dear child, 
we owe you our thanks for this happy hour. Take this 
ring, and if you want anything, and show this ring to me, I 
will remember this happy meeting, and if your wish lies within 
the bounds of possibility, I will grant it with pleasure.” With 
these words the Elector drew a ring from his finger, and held it 
out to the masked lady. She, evidently confused and undecided 


70 


Beethoven : 


at first, collected herself immediately and said, with her former 
ease : — 

“ Every ring is the first link in a chain, but since your Serene 
Highness has liberated me, you will certainly grant me another 
token of your favor.” 

“Well,” cried the Elector, good-naturedly, “you can choose. 
May I offer you my heart ? ” 

“I should then be robbing the Electorate and all mankind. 
No ! But your Serene Highness wears here, as an emblem, a 
little golden rose. May I venture ? ” 

“ With the greatest pleasure,” answered Maximilian, gallantly 
taking off the rose and giving it to the domino. “It will pos- 
sess the same power as the ring.” 

“Now,” said the lady, concealing the rose in her bosom, and 
bowing gracefully, “with iny heartfelt thanks for so much 
chivalrous generosity, I beg to be returned to my friends.” 

“With or without my witchcraft?” said the Elector, laugh- 
ing. 

“Without the witchcraft, please,” begged the mask, with 
outstretched hands. “ Anyone who has once come in contact 
with your Highness knows that you are able to bewitch.” 
With these words and a final bow the blue domino slipped out 
of the little company. 

“Who can that be ?” said the Elector, and he and the court- 
iers exhausted themselves with conjectures, but all in vain. 
The blue domino had vanished. 


MEETING AGAIN. 

Two days had passed since the great masquerade ball, which 
the Elector of Cologne had given to the nobility of the Rhine 
as a celebration of the carnival. The sky was thickly overcast, 
and was now sending down to the earth huge masses of snow. 

The sitting-room of the Counsellor’s widow presented a 
picture of comfort. It was plain that an intelligent woman’s 
spirit ruled there. There was no luxury, no oppressive super- 


A Biographical Romance. 71 

fluity of furniture, but everything bore the impress of neatness 
and care. Snow-white curtains, draped in clouds above the 
windows and hanging down on the sides, gave light and cheer- 
fulness to the room, and hyacinths, jonquils, and crocuses 
spread over the whole the breath of spring, in spite of the 
snow which was falling in masses out of doors. A carpet, 
prettily worked in the fashion of the time, covered the floor, on 
which shepherds and shepherdesses were guarding their flocks. 
At the broad window, in the centre, stood a work-table around 
which Frau Yon Breuning, Jeanette, and Eleonore were now 
sitting, all busy with their work, and enjoying the comfortable 
warmth dispensed by the large stove. 

The fire crackled so prettily, the clock ticked so cozily, the 
conversation seemed so homelike that, at every gust of wind 
which drove the masses of snow tempestuously against the 
window, they felt endless content in the thought of being pro- 
tected and united by this sweet domestic life. 

“It is quite too cozy here with you, dear friends,” Jeanette 
said, letting her fancy work fall into her lap. 

“We owe that to the stove,” said Frau Yon Breuning, 
smiling. 

“If we could only carry this happiness with us into life,” 
Jeanette continued. 

“ That, my dear child, everyone can do.” 

Jeanette shook her head, gently. Then she said, “Home is 
the sweetest expression which the language contains. A house 
is bought with money; it is filled with the finest furniture, 
decorated with a thousand costly things. The brilliantly- 
lighted rooms are filled with perfume, but it is not a home. 
We have a house in Yienna, but my home is by the Rhine.” 

There was a heavy knock at the door. It opened in response 
to a “Come in” from Frau Yon Breuning, and Ludwig Yan 
Beethoven entered. 

Owing to a slight illness he had not been at the Breunings’ 
for a few days, and had heard nothing of their guest. Her 
sudden appearance, therefore, surprised him unpleasantly at 
first. He greeted her hastily, but the blood rushed to his 
head and heart. “Jeanette!” be cried in joyful amazement, 
held out both hands to his friend Eleonore, with his usual 
heartiness, then, as a painful thought oppressed him, he said 


72 


Beethoven : 


with forced coldness, “Excuse me, madame.” The name 
Yon Greth never passed his lips; he would sooner have bitten 
them till the blood came. 

This sudden change to ceremonious coldness made a painful 
impression upon Jeanette, whom the first joyous recognition on 
Ludwig’s part had touched like a warm sunbeam from home. 

Nothing had escaped the keen glance of Frau Yon Breuning. 
She read the thoughts of the two young people, but she had 
expected nothing else at their first meeting, especially from 
Ludwig’s severe nature, but she felt confident that under 
guidance a greater peace might come to him. 

“Well,” she said, smiling ironically, “be sure that you 
restrain yourselves in each other’s presence. Show that you 
have learned the ways of the world in the two years since you 
have met, for Ludwig places so much value on empty forms.” 

“It is not that,” he said, feeling more tender at the sight of 
Jeanette’s moist eyes, “but I can no longer ” 

“Say Jeanette?” said Frau Yon Breuning, “why not 
always in our house ? The beautiful relations which bound us 
all to this child before has suffered no change. It does not 
seem to me at all as if Jeanette had been away.” 

“Nor to me,” cried Eleonore, “although she has grown 
terribly above my head, both physically and mentally.” 

Ludwig, relieved from his first embarrassment, was obliged to 
admit this ; but this very change made him feel less deeply the 
loss once so painful ; and the beautiful repose of the young 
woman raised her above the ideal girl to a far higher revelation 
for Ludwig. 

Frau Yon Breuning knew howto seize this mood of Ludwig’s, 
and to guide and strengthen it. She led the conversation very 
simply and naturally, but so that in both the young people the 
ideal chords were always struck, never one which could touch 
the wounded spot or put them out of humor. After an hour 
the old free tone sounded again, and after still another, Frau 
Yon Breuning knew that her beautiful plan would succeed. 

Ludwig, whose upright, honest character would suffer no 
secret reserve, told Jeanette quite openly that he had loved 
her, but he told, also, frankly how his love for her, even before 
her betrothal, had been glorified into an inspired love for his 
art. Jeanette listened to this confession not without slight 


A Biographical Romance. 


73 


embarrassment, but by this plain speaking in presence of Frau 
Von Breuning and Eleonore matters were placed in a clear 
light. Both young people breathed freely, and the interest 
they felt in each other needed no longer to shun the light, but 
a beautiful friendly affection, he a happiness and help to both. 

This could not have continued long had not a letter from the 
general brought to the young wife the news that he was to 
follow the Emperor against the Turks, and that she might 
therefore remain with her parents until the end of the war. So 
Jeanette gained from her parents permission to stay longer in 
Bonn. 

The social life in the Breunings’ house was blooming more 
beautifully than ever, and a new sun was rising upon it in this 
lovely young woman. Beethoven, Ries, Wegeler, the two 
Rombergs, and the brothers Kügelgen were never missing for a 
day. The latter were now very happy. Their father had 
been dead a year, and they could now follow the desire of then- 
hearts and devote themselves to art. For Beethoven this 
beautiful period was most important. Jeanette’s tender affec- 
tion awakened perfect spring-time in his heart, and the beauty 
and purity of the relation to her gave to them both that bright- 
ness and wonderful harmony which they had so often admired 
in Frau Yon Breuning, and which they now felt to be the 
greatest happiness of life. 

There was something else which made this period one of the 
happiest for Beethoven. He had formed such a friend as he 
had pictured to himself in his ardent enthusiasm for ancient 
Greece. Ludwig, at that time, stood in no need of acquaint- 
ances and friends. Stephan and Christoph Breuning, and all 
the other young men in the circle, were near enough to him, 
but a real friend, such as his heart desired, he believed to have 
found for the first time in the talented young musician who was 
with him in the electoral chapel. 

When a character like Ludwig Van Beethoven lays hold 
upon anything, it does so with the tenderness and earnestness 
peculiar to it. Ludwig did not wish to be inferior to the 
ancient Greeks in his friendship. He longed to be able to 
make some sacrifice for it, and Berton gave him opportunity 
enough. During the last few weeks he had starved himself in 
secret, because, in order to relieve his friend from a difficulty, 


74 


Beethoven : 


he had given him the little he could spare. Such a sacrifice 
only served to increase his happiness. 

At this time of joyful enthusiasm Ludwig wrote his first 
sonatas and the variations on ‘Yiene Amore,’ after a theme by 
Righini. He intended in the beginning to dedicate them to 
Jeanette, hut, persuaded by Frau Yon Breuning, he dedicated 
them to his pupil, the Countess Yon Hartzfeld. 

It was a golden period for Beethoven, and for Frau Yon 
Breuning also, for she was supremely happy at the excellent 
shape which matters had taken, and at the beautiful develop- 
ment of her favorite. Under her influence, and that of 
Jeanette, Ludwig’s repelling characteristics had almost retired 
into the back-ground. The lessons he always gave unwillingly, 
still he forced himself, and gave them. On the other hand, his 
good side came out more brilliantly than ever. In none of the 
other young men, although they all rivalled each other in 
vigorous effort, appeared such decision in the acceptance and 
pursuit of his calling as in him. What intellectual power 
showed itself! What a gigantic impulse to make himself known 
in great musical creations! Added to all this were his purity 
of soul, a warm heart thirsting for love, and an ardent rever- 
ence for the ideals of beauty and sublimity. 

Frau Yon Breuning was infinitely happy at all this ; but the 
sunshine was almost too dazzling for her. She knew what share 
this beautiful relation to Jeanette had in the development of 
the young genius. How would it be when this influence ceased ?■ 
This was the great anxiety which would steal its way into her 
motherly heart. But she was strong enough to trust the seed 
which she had planted, and the naturally good soil upon which 
it had fallen. In the course of the next month an event took 
place which cast a new sunbeam into the spring-time of life 
which had opened for Ludwig Yan Beethoven. 


WHEN ONE GOES ON A JOURNEY. 

Max Franz, Elector of Cologne, was Grand Master of the 
Teutonic Order, and as such had his residence at the castle 
of Mergentheim. In the month of April the order was issued 


A Biographical Romance. 


75 


for all the officers and servants of the Court, and also the court 
choir, to prepare themselves by the middle of May for a jour- 
ney to Mergentheim, and a long residence there. 

A journey from Bonn to Mergentheim was about the same 
as a journey from St. Petersburg to Madrid. The lively 
little company of the orchestra and theatre had to make the 
journey in two yachts up the Rhine and the Main ; that is, 
taking into consideration the curves of the river, they took at 
that time ten hours for a journey which we now, borne upon 
the wings of steam, can take in an hour. 

To a young man like Ludwig Van Beethoven what poetry 
there was in the thought of taking the whole glorious journey 
up the Rhine, of seeing Coblenz, Bingen, Mainz, Frankfurt and 
Wurtzburg! 

He parted unwillingly from the circle at the Breunings’ house, 
which was so dear to him. A sacred bond seemed to claim him 
there, but fate was very gentle with him this time : she loosed 
the bond to some extent. Jeanette, unwilling to neglect her 
filial duty, went for a few months to her parents at Cologne, 
where she expected to meet her husband. 

Nature has implanted in the heart of youth the love of travel, 
the almost irresistible desire to go out into the world. There, 
life lays hold upon a young man, tosses him, plays at dice with 
him, makes him struggle for pleasure and gain, for glory and 
honor. When he has found all this, or only a part of it, or 
has grown weary in the storms of life, the recollection of the 
peace of youth returns. So both feelings, the love of home and 
the longing to rush out into the world, have their perfect justifi- 
cation in life, and belong to the great motive powers which are 
brought to bear with such infinite wisdom in this master-piece 
of the universe. 

But another thought occupied Ludwig Van Beethoven. He 
hoped to see, hear, and learn much that was new in connection 
with his art, so he rejoiced at the thought of seeing Canon 
Sterkel,* the composer of the opera Farnace, who was there in 
AschafFenburg, and was at that time considered one of the finest 


»Johann Franz Zavier Sterkel, a very pleasing composer and pianist, who 
was born at Wiirtzburg, 1750, studied theology, became organist and court- 
chaplain at Mainz in 1778, travelled to Italy at the expense of his prince in 
1779, became on his return canon at Mainz, and, after Righini ’s death, kapell- 
meister th,ere, where he died in 1817. 


76 


Beethoven : 


pianists. He hoped, also, to make the acquaintance of Righini,* 
the excellent singer and composer. No wonder that Beethoven 
looked forward with delight and impatience to the time of 
starting. Besides Ries, Wegeler, the two Rombergs, and, 
better than all, Berton, were to be his travelling companions. 
But the month of June arrived before the Elector left Bonn. 
Then Wegeler rushed into Ludwig’s room one afternoon, and 
announced with loud hurrahs that early on the next day, but 
one at five o’clock, the two yachts with their lively freight 
would start. 

What life was stirring when that morning came ! The earth 
itself, so fresh and bright, sent forth its greeting. The sky 
shone in its most glorious blue ; the sun rose like a queen behind 
the Seven Mountains ; and Father Rhine seemed to be sweep- 
ing his green waves swiftly on to the sea. Near the shore, 
opposite the Rhine-gate, lay two magnificent yachts, entwined 
with leaves and flowers, and gayly decked with flags. Already 
the sailors, amid the wild jokes of Master Lux, were lifting 
one cask of wine after another into the hold. Baskets of bread, 
ham, sausages, and other eatables were received with cries of 
delight by the travellers, waiting in joyful expectation on the 
shore, as well as by the curious eyes of spectators. The youth 
of Bonn took a most important share in this spectacle, but their 
shouting knew no bounds when Lux, in the overflow of joy, 
scattered a few pieces of money among them. With cries, 
laughter, pulling and abuse, the crowd now fell upon one 
another, each stretching out eagerly and looking for little coins. 

The travellers were not all so unrestrained in their joy as 
Lux. In the more quiet party were Beethoven and his most 
intimate acquaintances, Berton, the Rombergs, Ries, Wegeler, 
and the two Kiigelgens, who made the journey at their own 
expense. Now, at last, all the preparations were completed. 
The members of the electoral choir and of the theatre went on 
board, and, with the singing of a merry song, the boat pushed 

* Vincenzo Righini, born at Bologna, 1760; educated by Father Martini, a 
good singer and composer, and a distinguished teacher of singing ; in 1783, 
kapell-meister of the Elector of Mainz; composer of Armida, Alcide, 
Arianna, etc., the mass at the coronation of Leopold II., and, in 1810, of 
the Te Deum at the birth-day celebration of Queen Louise of Prussia; 
kapell-meister at Berlin in 1793; died in 1812. Good harmony of different 
instruments, melody, clearness, Mozart’s cheerfulness, and depth are the 
most distinctive qualities of his musical creations. 


A Biographical Romance. 


77 


off from land. Then the cannon boomed on the shore, the 
handkerchiefs of those left behind waved their parting greet- 
ing, tears stood in many an eye, and many a sigh escaped the 
breast of a mother, wife, or sweetheart, left at home, at the 
long, perilous journey of these friends who were floating away 
from them. 

To Ludwig and his friends handkerchiefs were waved from 
the windows of a little garden-house on the Old Turnpike, and 
the travellers returned the greeting joyfully. They knew well 
what faithful love they were leaving there to find it soon again. 
But young Beethoven was moved by another feeling, which 
made him very happy. It was the thought of a dear one far 
away. 

How swiftly the next few days passed for the whole com- 
pany ! As the Elector was not going directly to Mergentheim, 
but made several excursions to the neighboring Courts, there 
was no hurry about the journey. They, therefore, landed at 
the finest points, and visited them together. They climbed up 
to the principal ruins of the Bhine valley, and the fun and wit 
of the good-natured artistic people often rose to the wildest 
extravagance. Of course, Lux was always the leader, but all 
were drawn into a free and merry mood by the glorious region 
itself, by the fine weather, and by a thousand comic occurrences. 

• With what shouts on those first days they greeted Ander- 
nach, Coblenz, the ruins of Stolzenfels, which they ascended, 
the magnificent rocks of the Lorelei, the grandest sight which 
the Rhine offers, Caub, and the Palatinate. They also landed 
at Bacharach to see the ruin of the Werner Cathedral. Beet- 
hoven and his friends clinked their glasses with especial 
pleasure to the health of the two Kiigelgens, for Bacharach was 
their birth-place. 

The whole company now spent their time in merriment till 
they landed at Bingen, where they were to pass the night. A 
hotel situated by the Rhine received the entire freight of both 
yachts, of course on condition that the greater part of the com- 
pany must be satisfied with a straw bed in the parlor, as many 
of the rooms were already occupied, and the others must be 
prepared for the ladies and the principal members. Such a 
couch was exactly suited to the ideas of these young artists, 
and the promise of it was received with delight. 


78 


Beethoven : 


The next day was spent in one continuous frolic. When the 
company went back to the hotel, a large table was spread for 
them. With the speed of lightning the seats were taken, and 
not till the excellent dessert came, and the fine Scharlachberger, 
did their wit explode. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven had also found the day very pleas- 
ant, but after dinner he returned to the room which stood in 
readiness for the director, and which he was so kind as to 
share with him. Here, at the open window, with his eye turned 
toward the Rhine, and the mountain-chain of the Niederwald 
stretched out like a giant in the darkness of night, with the 
lights of Budesheim glittering at its feet, in the first enjoy- 
ment of the impressions of the day’s journey, he composed the 
pretty song : — 

“ Wen Jemand eine Reise thut 
Dann kann er was erzählen.” 


CHANGE. 

There is scarcely a more beautiful, a more poetic, legend than 
of Orpheus, whose lyre opened even the gates of Orcus. 
Music opens to mankind an unknown realm, a world which 
has nothing in common with this outer world of the senses, but 
which surrounds the latter, and, on entering which, one lays 
aside all positive feeling to surrender himself to an inexpressi- 
ble but blessed longing. He who has once cast a glance into 
this kingdom, who has felt this sweet longing, is drawn to both 
again by irresistible power. 

Beethoven, even after the composition of his song, was too 
much excited to go to bed, though Ries was already asleep, 
and, as the night was wonderfully beautiful and mild, Beet- 
hoven remained absorbed in thought at the open window. With 
the composition of this song, with the last dying tone of this 
lawless day, one of those sudden changes had taken place 
which were so marked in Beethoven’s character. Was it that 
Ludwig was not created for the enjoyment of continued pleasure ? 
Or was it that, in the stillness of night, the gates of that invisi- 


79 


A Biographical Romance. 

ble realm of which we have spoken had sprung open ? In short, 
the cheerfulness which had characterized him on the first days 
of the journey had changed. He felt that he had tasted enough 
from the foaming cup of pleasure, and pushed it back with 
repugnance. The world within him had grown beyond the 
external world. Immeasurable as the star-sown infinity above 
him was the realm into which he now plunged. He laid hold 
of his heart, which was so full and so deeply stirred, as if he 
would tear from it great deeds and great creations. Suddenly 
he remembered an occurrence which was now years behind him. 
It was that walk with the Breunings and their friends to Godes- 
berg. Then, just as he, walking alone, had come to the con- 
sciousness that, if he would become truly great through music, 
he must live and act for this idea, and for this alone, must sacri- 
fice to it all the pleasures of life, — friendship and love, riches, 
honor and happiness, — an eagle, with outspread wings, had 
whizzed by above his head. 

Even then that moment had had a decided influence upon 
him, and Ludwig now felt that the strength of that influence 
had not died away. It had received new nourishment from 
that evening by the Bhine after he heard of Jeanette’s 
betrothal. From that time his decision had been firm as a giant, 
and only concealed at times by passing clouds. Perhaps he 
was too severe upon himself if he called the pleasures of the 
past day such a cloud. But, as he had often done before, he 
cast from himself, with the strength of a Titan, every oppres- 
sive weight, and stood free, uplifted by his great resolve-, like 
a regenerate creature. The friends were not very much amazed 
when they saw this transformation the next day. They were 
accustomed to this in Beethoven, and, although they sometimes 
ridiculed his severity, they could not withhold from him their 
respect and appreciation. There was something grand in Lud- 
wig’s character which, in the midst of the most honest and 
uninterrupted effort, was always crying to itself, “All this is by 
no means enough, a far too weary flight, checked by the powers 
of this earthly life. Shake thy wings anew, and soar to the 
shining stars.” 

In fact, for the whole company the rest of the journey, 
though still very lively, was less brilliant than before. They 
had been a little too boisterous, and not until they had passed 


80 


Beethoven : 


Mainz was Lux once more a model of wit and extravagance, 
thus giving the tone to the whole party. He knew why his 
gayety was unbounded. Kapell-meister Ries had privately 
engaged him for Mainz and Frankfürt, with a large increase of 
salary, and the promise to pay his debts in Bonn, which were 
probably not small. 

Meanwhile, Beethoven clung more closely than ever to 
Berton, and his influence seemed to have a transforming effect 
upon Leo, for though certainly a very pleasure-seeking and sen- 
sual young man, he now held back from the general lawlessness 
like a philosopher. Bernhard Romberg maintained that Berton 
was a false man, and that there must be some hidden reason 
for his attachment to Ludwig. This very opposition excited 
Ludwig’s obstinacy, and so wounded his self-love that he now 
clung only to Berton. Berton fondled and flattered his friend 
whenever he could, and Ludwig would have gone literally 
through fire and water for him. 

Is it possible to estimate the transporting charm which a 
youthful friendship has for a strong artistic temperament? 
Ludwig’s noble heart, thirsting for love, involuntarily stretched 
out its spiritual feelers in search of something which should 
fill his whole soul. He was on the right road, but he must 
travel over the road like a human being ; and could he do so 
without human feelings and desires ? 

Let a pure, comprehensive, divine love once thrill your 
wounded heart, and it is consecrated forever. To one it comes 
as a wife, to another as a friend, to a third as art. This is the 
reason why the poor human heart must search so much and go 
astray so often. 


CANON STERKEL. 

So the bright days of the journey passed away, and a similar 
one has seldom been made under pleasanter circumstances. 
Youth, talents of all kinds, in rich abundance, that freedom 
from restraint which permits the most delightful love affairs ; 
beautiful weather, which smiled with unusual constancy upon 


A Biographical Romance. 81 

the happy company, — these united formed a most charming 
whole. 

On the rest of the journey Ludwig Yan Beethoven enjoyed 
what was beautiful, but with that lofty gravity which had come 
over him since he left Bingen. This was evidently hard for 
Berton, who often joined in the general revelry when he saw 
that he was not observed by Ludwig. But Leo lived mostly 
for his friend, and he for him, so that Lux gave them the nick- 
names of Orestes and Pylades. 

A day was given to the venerable coronation city of Frank- 
fürt, Hanau was hastily visited, and a beautiful Sunday spent 
in Aschaffenburg. They were just turning a corner when Kies, 
addressing his young companion, said, “Have you with you the 
letter of introduction to the canon which Simrock gave you ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Beethoven, “ we must be introduced there.” 

“We do not need Simrock’s letter for that,” said the 
director. “ I have known Sterkel for a long time, but it is quite 
as well for you to bring with you a kindly word from Bonn.” 

“I am much pleased at the thought of this meeting,” Lud- 
wig continued. “ I have never heard a really celebrated 
pianist, and Sterkel is said to be very skillful.” 

“He is indeed,” answered Ries, “ and was so ten years ago 
when I first knew him as organist and court chaplain at Mainz. 
He was remarkable, especially for his light and pleasing 
touch.” 

“I should like to learn something in that direction, for my 
playing is too rough, too hard.”* 

“Yet I should not like to have you accept his manner 
entirely.” 

“There is no danger of that, but why not?” 

“Because I think Sterkel plays a little too much like a 
woman.”! 

“It is not at all necessary for a man to give up his original 
style, although he may accept something better which is peculiar 
to anyone else.” 

“ Keep to that principle. You will find it to be of much 
use to you. But, dear friend, permit me one more question?” 

“With pleasure.” 

* Schindler; Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Biography, 
f Wegeler and Ries; Biographical Notices, p. 17. 

6 


82 


Beethoven : 


“ How does it happen that your piano-playing should really 
be often a little hard when you have so much feeling?” 

Beethoven smiled. Was it not a weakness of the good Ries 
that he had not often before called his attention to this, if he 
knew it. 

“How does it happen?” said Ludwig. “I believe it come» 
simply from my playing the organ so much.* You know that 
the organ is very dear to me.” 

While this conversation was going on the two friends had 
reached the house. Ries rang, and an old servant led them at 
once to the upper story. 

Although the house was old and unsightly, they found there 
a very pleasant, spacious room, furnished not luxuriously but 
very tastefully. 

“ I am curious to see how Sterkel looks,” said Beethoven, 
when the old servant had left them to call his master from the 
garden. “ I have often found that one can judge the occu- 
pant by the room with tolerable certainty. There is usually a 
harmony in the physiognomy of the two.” 

“I never thought of that,” said Ries, “but you may be 
right. Order within and without certainly correspond.” 

“ I judge from the general impression which this room makes 
upon me of the character of the occupant.” 

“How?” 

“ Why, is there not in this bright, pleasant room, though very 
unassuming, something refined, self-respecting ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“His character,” Beethoven continued, “is unassuming, 
simple, but never lowers itself. Am I right? Is not that 
Sterkel’s picture ? ” 

Ries was about to reply when the door opened, and Sterkel 
entered. 

The canon was a man of thirty or forty years, well-built, 
and with a noble, frank expression. Beethoven smiled when 
he saw him, for his opinion was so completely confirmed, not 
only by his appearance but by his behavior, that the two visitors 
soon felt at their ease. A lively conversation ensued after the 
ceremonious introduction and the presentation of the letter, — 


* Beethoven’s own words. 


83 


A Biographical Romance. 

a conversation far removed from those flat parlor talks which 
consist of nothing but empty phrases and unmeaning courtesies. 

Here they talked about what interested them, about piano- 
playing, composing for the piano, and the piano itself as a 
favorite instrument, or otherwise. 

“ The finest expression of which this instrument is capable,” 
said Beethoven, “does not give to melody the stirring life and 
the thousands of shades which the bow of a violin or the breath 
of a wind instrument could produce.” 

“That is so,” said Sterkel; “the player struggles in vain 
against the insurmountable difficulty caused by the mechanism 
which makes the strings vibrate and resound by means of a key- 
board. Who should understand this weakness better than IV” 

“Yet,” said Kies, “it is you, as everybody knows, who have 
gained such victories with this instrument.” 

“ Because it has also its superior side,” answered Sterkel, 
pleasantly, “for there is certainly no instrument which, like 
the grand piano, comprehends in full accords the whole realm 
of harmony, and reveals its treasures to the connoisseur in the 
most wonderful modes, forms. But one thing more is necessary, 
a skillful composer who knows how to deal with the piano, — and 
how many have we of these?” 

“Men like you,” said Beethoven, “must and will call them 
forth. When the imagination of the composer has grasped a 
complete tone-picture, with rich groups, bright lights and deep 
shadows, and thrown it upon the paper, then the artist who 
executes, be he composer or not, can so reproduce it upon the 
grand piano that it comes forth from the inner world shining in 
color, a new creation, and enters into life with a transporting 
charm.” 

“Yes,” said Sterkel, with a pleasant smile, which was an 
expression of his enthusiasm for his art, “ there is something 
charming in this reproduction, which is in a certain sense a new 
creation. The full-voiced score, that real musical book of 
necromancy, which preserves in its signs all the wonders of the 
art of tone, the mysterious chorus of many kinds of instruments, 
becomes inspired under the hands of the master of the grand 
piano. Yet, do you know, my dear sir, what I am always forced 
to compare such a piece with, apart from the scene, even when 
well performed and with all the voices ? ” 


84 


Beethoven : 


“With what?” asked Ries. 

“ With a fine engraving taken from a great painting. What 
is it compared with the original work ? No ! no ! But for 
fantasias, for executing sonatas, trios, quartettes, quintettes, 
etc., where the ordinary stringed instruments come in, for these 
the piano and the grand piano are peculiarly fitted.” 

“ Certainly,” said Beethoven, “ because here it depends wholly 
upon the harmonious finish, which of itself excludes the intro- 
duction of single instruments in brilliant passages.” 

“I agree with you,” said Sterkel, and he looked at Beet- 
hoven with satisfaction, “ but young artists must guard against 
one thing, ordinary piano concerts. I have a genuine dislike of 
these.” 

“ Why ? ” Ries and Beethoven asked, astonished. 

“ Because, usually, the skill of each player should be brought 
out in passages and in the expression of the melody, but the best 
player upon the finest instrument, with all the forced passages, 
can only do artificial work like a rope-dancer, while in the 
expression of the melody he strives in vain for that which the 
violinist can accomplish with slight effort.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Ries, “ if only the nimbleness of the 
fingers is admired little is gained, but you have the reputation 
of addressing the feelings.” 

“Because, as a composer,” said Sterkel, “I take care that a 
simple but fruitful theme, suitable to the various turns of coun- 
terpoint, lies at the foundation of every composition.” 

“ And that all the minor themes and figures,” said Beethoven, 
“ are so closely connected with the main idea that the whole 
addresses the heart, and arranges and twists itself prettily and 
neatly into the most perfect unity. I know this, Canon, for 
your compositions have always been favorites of mine.” 

“I am glad to hear that from my rival,” said Sterkel, 
smiling. 

“Why your rival?” asked Beethoven. 

“Why,” continued the former, “you are beginning, young 
man, to put my fame in danger. Your variations on Viene 
Amove,” the theme by Righini, are a superior creation. I own 
them, and am fond of playing them.” 

“ You think, then, that I may venture to go on in this path ? ” 

“Venture ! My dear young man, if you go on so, the name 
of Beethoven will be on the lips of everyone.” 


A Biographical Romance . 


85 


“ That is certainly my highest aim.” 

“ Then go forward, good Chamber-musician. We need skill- 
ful composers. There is a mighty stir just now in the field of 
music. What have not Haydn, Dettersdorf, Glück, and our 
glorious Mozart done in these later times ! ” 

“ O Mozart, Mozart ! ” cried Beethoven, and his eyes lighted 
up with enthusiasm. “He is my idol. Now only thirty-two, 
and his fame fills the whole world.” 

“And rightly.” 

“How glorious his operas are! — Idomeneo, The Betrayal, 
Figaro, his violin quartette dedicated to Haydn, his symphonies 
in G minor and C major, and, above all, what a colossal master- 
piece is his Don Juan! How Mozart, that glorious man, pene- 
trates the secrets of harmony ! How he works upon the souls 
of men ! The proportions of numbers which, to most men, are 
only dead, stiff examples in reckoning are always to him magic 
forms from which he brings forth an enchanted world.” 

At these words Beethoven had sprung up, and was walking 
up and down the room much excited. The two other men 
looked with delight upon this youthful enthusiasm. After a 
pause Ludwig said, turning to Ries : — 

“ Do you know, dear Director, what I have done on our jour- 
ney since we left Bingen, when they have been too wild for 
me?” 

“Why, you have crept away with your Py lades! Every- 
body has seen that who had eyes.” 

“But what did we do then?” 

“You must have philosophized with Plato: I know your 
passion.” 

“A mistake,” cried Beethoven, with proud delight. “We 
studied Don Juan, — the score, I mean, — its great and innu- 
merable beauties of counterpoint.” 

“ Where did you get the score of this opera ? ” 

“From my friend and patron, Count Waldenfels. He lent 
it to me for this journey.” 

“That is right,” said Sterkel. “He who wishes to become 
great must form himself after great models.” 

The canon added, rising, “ Since you are such a great wor- 
shiper of Mozart, I will play for you a few variations on themes 
from his operas.” He went to the piano, which was the chief 


86 


Beethoven : 


ornament of the room, opened it, and began to play in his own 
simple way. What pretty, polished, and yet deeply-felt, play- 
ing it was! Beethoven and Ries listened with amazement. 
Neither of them had ever heard such playing, so delicate, so 
soft, and with a virtuosity which* surprised even these two skill- 
ful pianists. 

When the canon finished playing, and the visitors had 
expressed their thanks and well-grounded admiration, Sterkel 
said to young Beethoven : — 

“ Now, dear Chamber-musician, it is your turn. Let me hear 
something from the promising composer of the variations I 
mentioned.” 

“Oh, no!” answered Beethoven, “you do not wish me to 
play after you, — the beginner after the master.” 

“No compliments,” said Sterkel, in his frank, pleasant way. 

“ I know nothing of them,” returned Ludwig, decidedly. 
“Regard it as fitting modesty that I do not venture to play 
before you.” 

“This modesty is too great,” said Sterkel. “If you wish 
to take the world by storm some day, you must not be too 
modest. That, indeed, is a fault from which most of our young 
artists suffer very little.” 

“I see,” Ries interrupted, “that I must intercede here. 
My young friend Beethoven is not one of those men who, 
when they are about to show their skill, suffer themselves to be 
flattered and urged in order, as they suppose, to make the 
greater impression. He is simple, true, and open, and many 
times quite too outspoken.” 

The canon laughed, then he said, “That pleases me. I like 
that in a young man of merit.” 

“ He is also a very skillful pianist,” director Ries added. 

“But, then,” said the canon, with a sly expression, “ a man 
may be a very good composer, and may understand writing very 
difficult pieces for the piano, but whether all who have done 
this are able to solve their own difficulties skillfully I very 
much doubt.” 

“Why not?” said Beethoven quickly at these words, for 
he understood very well that Sterkel meant him, and had 
expressed the doubt whether he was able to execute his own 
variations perfectly. This seemed to Ludwig an attack upon 


87 


A Biographical Romance . 

his honor. Ambition restored to him the full energy of his 
character, and he cried, “We shall soon see. Have you my 
variations on Viene Amove at hand ? ” 

“Certainly,” answered Sterkel, pleased at the success of his 
artifice. But they did not find the variations ; they must have 
been mislaid. 

“ That makes no difference,” said Beethoven, with a proud 
consciousness, and seated himself quickly, and without another 
word, at the piano. 

“ What,” cried Bies and Sterkel at once, “you will not play 
these difficult variations from memory?” 

Ludwig made no reply; he only nodded his head, and 
began. Now the astonishment was on the side of the other 
two. Beethoven not only played these variations, but he also 
improvised a number of others not less difficult, and, to the 
great surprise of his two listeners, executed them all perfectly, 
and with the same pretty, pleasing manner throughout which he 
had just admired in Sterkel.* 

“ Magnificent, magnificent ! ” cried Sterkel, delighted. 

“Genius! ” added Bies, and looked at his friend with joyful 
pride. He knew from that moment that Ludwig Van Beet- 
hoven was born for decided greatness. The canon could not 
be withheld from embracing the young man heartily. Then he 
seized both Ludwig’s hands, and cried, looking at him with 
beaming eyes : — 

“ You have excelled me, Beethoven ! You will be great some 
day. Yes, you are permeated by a divine power. Hold it fast, 
and yield yourself, body, soul, and mind, to the spirit stirring 
within you. My inmost conviction tells me that you belong to 
the consecrated ones of this world. You have already learned the 
deep meaning of the language of that spiritual realm, for you 
can speak it. Onward, then, with the magic power of genius, 
call forth all the glorious visions which slumber in your inmost 
soul, that they may glide through life in shining circles, and 
fill all who can see and understand them with inspiration and 
rapture.” Sterkel embraced Beethoven once more, and begged 
that he might be permitted to be called his friend. 

How beautiful the hours were which followed, passed in 

♦Exactly according to the account of Herr Ries himself; Wegeler and Ries, 
p. 16. Marx; Ludwig Van Beethoven, Part First, p. 13. Schindler, p. 22, 


88 


Beethoven : 


unending happiness by these great men. In young Beethoven 
the purpose was livelier than ever to sacrifice everything to his 
art, and to have this alone always before his eyes. He knew 
that he should find his brightest reward in these endeavors. 

The wings of his soul grew, and a strange sensation came 
over him, as if a divine power suddenly swelled his heart, and 
he grew to the occasion, — great, powerful, unattainable. 

Then he saw in the spirit Jeanette’s lovely form as Genius 
of Fancy holding out the wreath to him, but the form and the 
wreath were far from him. As he reached after it, it melted 
away in the evening’s golden glimmer. 


THE CRY FOR HELP. 

The journey to Mergentheim, which had begun so favorably, 
was soon to take an unpleasant turn for young Beethoven. 
Scarcely had the company reached their destination when Leo 
Berton, to whom Ludwig clung with his whole soul, was taken 
seriously ill. At first, Beethoven thought this illness was only 
a passing cloud, but the case grew perceptibly worse until 
physicians declared that a nervous fever had set in. 

Now Beethoven’s heart showed itself in its best light. In 
spite of all the entreaties of his anxious friends the reasonable 
arguments of the physician, the dangerous nature of the disease, 
which at that time was sweeping off hundreds in Mergentheim 
and the surrtf&nding country, young Beethoven could not be 
dissuaded from nursing his sick friend night and day. He 
only went out to rehearsals and concerts in which he was 
obliged to take part. 

Anxiety, being too much in the sick room, and constant 
watching at night, so affected his health that he grew very pale 
and thin. Ries made every effort to moderate his friend’s zeal ; 
Wegeler and the Rombergs did the same, but in vain. When 
did he ever use moderation ? He always went to one extreme 
or the other, and, being naturally suspicious, he could see 
nothing in the entreaties of his friends but concealed attempts 


A Biographical Romance. 


89 


to separate him from Berton. Was it surprising that Beethoven 
grew sick as Leo, thanks to his tender care, recovered ? But 
the joy of having saved his friend raised him above danger. 
After these months at Mergentheim he returned with his friends 
to Bonn thin and pale, but with restored health. The most 
important event of the journey home was that on the way Lux 
suddenly disappeared. A few months afterwards, however, he 
appeared at Frankfiirt and Mainz, well and happy, engaged as 
a member of the theatre company there, to the great delight 
of the mirth-loving public. Beethoven did not feel very sad 
about it. He never really liked Lux, for the two natures were 
diametrically opposed to each other. He clung to Berton so 
much the more closely from day to day. He did not succeed 
in introducing him into the Breunings’ house, for the Counsel- 
lor’s widow had too many objections to offer to this talented and 
outwardly-respectable young man. 

A fortnight after Frau Von Greth’s return two letters were 
handed to her by the servant who had attended her upon her 
journey. She seized them hastily, cast a quick glance at the 
hand- writing of the addresses, and cried, “ From my husband^ 
and from Eleone.” Then she sat down, laid her husband’s 
letter unopened on the window-sill, and with joyful impatience 
broke open the one from her friend. Eleonore ’s letter was as 
follows : — 

“Dear Jeanette, 

You will be amazed that my last scrawl, which 
I sent you four days ago, should be followed so soon by a letter 
a yard long, when, according to our agreement, I ought to have 
waited for your reply. But do not suppose that it is only the 
fancy of a girl who finds pleasure in unburdening to her friend 
a heart laden with secrets. I have already said too much in 
my last letter of the sensations which were before strange to 
me, but which now give me so much happiness. ‘ Out of the 
heart the mouth speaketh,’ and between us, alas! the pen must 
take the place of the mouth. No more of this, however, except 
that Wegeler is a dear, good creature. 

“ Today I have to speak of another good creature, though 
somewhat obstinate and unpliable. You will know at once 


90 


Beethoven : 


whom I mean. Can it be anyone but Ludwig? Ah, dear 
Jeanette, he is giving us much anxiety again, — more anxiety 
than ever ; and we miss you, because you know how to soften 
and quiet him by some wonderful charm. You know from my 
letters how the young chamber-musician, Berton, has succeeded 
in controlling his noble heart. But you know Ludwig. If, 
from some caprice, he is once attracted to a person, he has no 
longer any eye for his weaknesses. The friendship for Berton 
owes its excess of devotion to pure opposition to us all, for 
even my brother dissuaded and warned him. Our fears were 
realized only too quickly. 

“Berton has deceived him shamefully. Behind Ludwig’s 
back he has obtained from the Elector, through deception, the 
favor of being sent to Vienna to complete his musical educa- 
tion. What is especially crushing to Ludwig, he has made 
wretched game of his confidence and love. Imagine the con- 
dition of our noble friend, for he is noble still under his rough 
exterior. Think of him with his dearest wish, the possibility 
of a fine musical education under the direction of Haydn, 
Albrechtsberger, and Salieri, destroyed, his whole future ruined. 
Think of him with his most sacred feelings despised, and do not 
forget that Ludwig is no ordinary man, that everything in his 
character tends to excess, and you will admit that we have a 
right to grieve for him. 

“He visits no one, speaks scarcely a word, is even more 
gloomy and repelling than before, and our good mother fears 
that, with his peculiar character, this unhappy circumstance 
may determine his whole life. To an unusually affectionate 
letter from brother Stephan he made no reply except the words 
“The happiness of my life is destroyed forever; my faith in 
mankind is irrecoverably lost.” This must not be. Upon that 
point we are all agreed. Neither as a man nor as an artist 
must Ludwig be ruined by the baseness of this miserable fel- 
low. I think it is our part now to show what friendship is. 
But how ? In what way shall we draw Ludwig to us again ? 

“ Here, dear Jeanette, you must advise and help us. We 
need you as a magician, only I make it a condition that you 
shall not enchant my Wegeler. But, come! Come soon, for, 
joking aside, even mother rests her last hope upon your being 


A Biographical Romance. 91 

here. Now, I know that we do not ask in vain, and shall, there- 
fore, expect you at once. 

Your devoted friend, 

Eleonore Yon Breuning.” 

J eanette had dropped the hand which held her friend’s letter 
in her lap, and was thinking earnestly of the sad fate of the 
young man for whose weal or woe a sympathizing chord always 
resounded in her heart. Suddenly light "seemed to flash upon 
her. 

“I have it! I have it! Everything will be right again, and 

the Elector cannot refuse it to me, for ” But the light 

died out in Jeanette’s eyes as quickly as it had arisen. “What 
if the matter were already decided,” she said slowly. “What 
if that wretched Berton holds this promise in his hand in 
writing? But why this irresolution? It is only stated here 
that Berton has obtained from the Elector through deception 
the promise of being sent to Vienna. That does not mean that 
he has the commission and the money for the journey in his 
pocket. There is then a possibility of rescue, and it must be 
tried.” Jeanette turned to make the necessary preparations 
for her journey. As she felt for the handkerchief which she 
had laid on the window-sill something fell on the floor. She 
looked for it. It was her husband’s letter, which she had quite 
forgotten in the thoughts of the one which told her about Lud- 
wig. Ashamed, she picked it up and read it. 

It was brief and to the point. Herr Yon Greth, having 
secretly returned from the Turko-Bussian war, hastily announced 
that the restlessness in France, and the proceedings of the 
French against their king, made an immediate outbreak of war 
with France almost a certainty. Austria was already quietly 
preparing, and since the Rhine district would be exposed to 
the first and greatest danger, it was his wish that Jeanette 
should return at once to Vienna. 

When Jeanette read the letter displeasure overshadowed her 
pretty brow. Not that the return to her husband was painful 
to her, for her wedded life was by no means unhappy. The 
indifference of husband and wife, together with loyalty to duty, 
helped them to live easily together, especially as their union 
had thus far been childless. 


92 


Beethoven : 


At any other time Jeanette would have submitted without 
hesitation to the wish of her husband, but at this moment the 
call to Vienna was very inconvenient. But she certainly would 
not have gone back to Austria without taking leave of the dear 
friends in Bonn. She, therefore, at once made preparations for 
a visit to the Breunings, made known to her parents her hus- 
band’s wish, and wrote to the latter that she would come as 
soon as possible to Vienna. 

When Jeanette entered the Breunings’ house on the evening 
of the next day the delight of Eleonore and the others can be 
easily imagined. 

“I thought so,” said the Counsellor’s widow, much pleased. 
“Jeanette’s noble heart could not resist our call for help.” 

“ Say rather the call of a sacred duty,” replied the young 
woman, blushing. “Perhaps I can, in some measure, make 
good the injury committed against him and myself in my youth- 
ful folly.” 

“ Above all things, we must win him again to the world and 
to life.” 

“ And inspire him once more with his wonted ambition, cost 
what it may.” 

“Oh, that will certainly come of itself,” said Jeanette. 

At this moment the two brothers came in. They greeted 
the new-comer heartily, then all sat down to hold a council-of- 
war, and form the necessary plans for attracting Ludwig again. 


THE GUABDIAN ANGEL. 

The Elector was walking angrily up and down his room. 
The dark cloud which lowered so threateningly over France 
seemed about to discharge itself over Germany also. In 
Saxony, usually so peaceful, the peasants, excited by the news 
from revolutionary France, were already beginning to revolt, 
and in various places active measures had been taken. But 
what was worse, and of far more importance to the Elector of 
Cologne, was the fact that in the neighboring towns these 
scenes had of late been imitated. 


A Biographical Romance. 


93 


The times had brought with them another evil. The French 
nobility were beginning to leave their country, and the revolu- 
tionary movements on the other side of the Elector’s border 
were sending a number of emigrants towards Coblenz, Cologne, 
and Bonn. 

Maximilian, cautious and wisely economical, was not a little 
disturbed by this, for, besides the expense which these uninvited 
guests might bring upon the country, they might also draw 
thither the storm of passion which was raging yonder. 

All these cares were now occupying the Elector continually. 
He was passing his hand over his brow with a disheartened air 
when his glance fell upon the piano which stood in the next 
room. He was a good musician. Often, in hours of depres- 
sion, this instrument had chased away his care. He, therefore, 
turned to it now, but he did not extemporise today as he usually 
did. He took up a little volume of manuscript notes, and 
began to play them through. The composition was very fine, 
but presented difficulties which were not so easily overcome 
even by so skillful a player. This was precisely what the 
Elector needed. The effort drew him away from his thoughts, 
and he was pleased with the conquest which he soon achieved. 

He was going on very smoothly when Count Waldenfels 
entered. The latter stood a long time unnoticed, listening with 
pleasure. Then the Elector chanced to look round and saw 
him. 

“ Waldenfels,” without permitting himself to be disturbed, 
“I am glad that you have come. I should like your criticism 
upon this sonata.” 

“ Your Electoral Grace has certainly no need of my criti- 
cism,” answered the minister, with a respectful bow. “I know 
no more competent judge than your Highness.” 

“No, no,” said the Elector, still playing on, “you are a 
greater connoisseur in music than I. I beg you, therefore, to 
give me your opinion of this composition without reserve.” 

“It is excellent,” answered Waldenfels. 

“ Only hear this passage ! ” said the Elector. 

“ How glorious ! It is difficult, but Beethoven likes that.” 
“Who?” 

“Beethoven.” 

“ You’ve guessed wrong,” cried the Elector, repeating the last 


94 


Beethoven : 


passage in which he had made a mistake. “ The sonata is a 
work of Berton’s.” 

“ I beg pardon, your Highness, you mean Beethoven.” 

“No, no, no! Berton.” 

“But ” 

“Now listen to it carefully.” 

“I know it.” 

“ Impossible ! Berton wrote it at my order, and brought it 
to me with the assurance that no one knew it.” 

“ Then Berton has lied to you.” 

“ Waldenfels! ” 

“ Pardon me, but I must hold to my statement as I was 
present when Beethoven composed this sonata, and played it to 
me after its completion.” 

“When was that?” 

“Three or four weeks ago.” 

“And you are not mistaken?” 

“I possess the original manuscript by Beethoven’s hand.” 

“ But, Berton?” 

“May I ask when your Highness gave Berton this order to 
compose a sonata?” 

“ Yesterday morning. I wished to see if he was in a condi- 
tion to demand anything of his talent. Genius must create like 
lightning, not collect with the industry of a bee.” 

“That is precisely what Berton cannot do. He is a very 
talented young man, but without a spark of genius.” 

“And you think ? ” 

“ He did not find himself in a condition to accede to your 
wish in the short time required. I know that, to Berton, three 
or four days would have been necessary for this work.” 

“And so must he ?” 

“In order not to appear unskillful, he has perhaps ” 

“Leave the matter to me,” said the Elector, rising, and the 
old lines of displeasure had gathered again upon his face. 
“ Berton seems to be a fine fellow,” he continued, as if he would 
silence his own doubts, “I have told him I would send him to 
Vienna. Beethoven has certainly remarkable talent, but 
Berton has talent also, and 1 have given him my word.” 

Count Waldenfels made no reply. He knew with what 
strictness Max Franz clung to his written word. The minister. 


A Biographical Romance. 


95 


therefore, only indicated his regret by a slight bow, and an 
almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. For a moment he 
scarcely knew what to do, when the chamber-maid announced 
a lady. 

“Who is she?” asked the Elector, vexatiously. 

“ She will not give her name, hut has pressing business with 
your Electoral Grace.” 

“I cannot see her.” 

The servant made a low bow and went out. In a few 
moments she returned again. 

“What?” asked the Prince, displeased, “will she not he 
refused ? ” 

“No,” answered the servant, “she begged me to give this 
to your Electoral Grace.” 

“Ah ! ” said Maximilian as he held in his hand the little 
golden rose which he had given to the lovely blue domino at 
the carnival ball. 

All his inquiries for this lady since that time had been in 
vain, and now she presented herself. 

“Admit her,” he cried, therefore, in a cheerful tone, to the 
servant. Then, laying his hand on the shoulder of the minister, 
who was about to withdraw, he said, smiling, “Do not go, my 
dear Count, it would be dangerous for an ecclesiast to endure 
such a meeting alone,” going at the same time towards the door 
which was just opening. 

“The wife of General Yon Greth!” said the Elector, 
surprised, “and you were that blue domino?” 

“Who owed her rescue to your Electoral Highness,” answered 
the pretty young woman, with a graceful bow. 

“How could I have been so blind as not to recognize you ? ” 

“Perhaps your Highness thought I was in Vienna.” 

Max Franz then invited Madame Von Greth to take a seat 
near him. 

After they were all seated the Prince began : — 

“I may, perhaps, ask what brings you to me?” 

“ A request, your Highness.” 

“And the rose reminds me of my promise to grant it.” 

“ May I then venture ? ” 

“I beg you to proceed.” 

“ I do so with a lighter heart as it concerns not me, but one of 


Beethoven : 


96 

your most excellent and most talented servants, whose whole 
future rests in your hands.” 

“You make me eager to know the name of this man. I 
already consider him fortunate, since he rejoices in so lovely an 
advocate.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried the young woman, with a beaming face, “ his 
best advocates are his noble heart, his brave soul, and his 
great talents.” 

“I shall scarcely be able to resist all these qualities com- 
bined with your own fair self. Who is this for whom you 
petition in such a beautiful union ? ” 

“Ludwig Van Beethoven,” said the general’s wife, with a 
slight bow. 

At these words a smile passed over the minister’s face, but 
it found no response on the face of the Elector, whose expres- 
sion on the contrary darkened a little. 

“How does it happen that you are interceding for young 
Beethoven ?” said Max Franz, after a few seconds, “ for I can 
readily understand that you petition that he may be sent to 
Vienna.” 

“That is indeed my request,” said Madame Von Greth. 
“Beethoven’s whole future depends on the possibility of a fine 
education under the direction of the great musicians of Vienna.” 
And now, with an eloquence of which she had not believed her- 
self capable, she explained the whole condition of affairs, painted 
with no less enthusiasm than grace the great service which 
Max Franz had rendered to science and art; described Lud- 
wig’s character, his talents, his former hopes, his friendship for 
Berton, his unspeakable pain at the treachery of his friend, and 
the annihilation of all his glorious hopes, all with such vividness 
and charm, that the Elector, -when she concluded, was evidently 
excited. But he was also indignant at Berton’s conduct. 

“You can certify to the truth of all you have said, especially 
with reference to young Berton?” he asked, with a solemn, 
steady gaze. 

“ I can,” said the general’s wife. 

“ And I, also,” added Waldenfels. 

“Very well,” answered the Elector, rising, “I will look into 
the matter myself, especially with regard to this sonata. If I 
find that it is as you represent, than I have been shamefully 


A Biographical Romance. 97 

deceived. I shall take back my word, and Beethoven goes to 
Vienna.” 

General Von Greth’s wife and Waldenfels, who rose at the 
same time, beamed with delight, but the Elector refused 
all thanks for the present. “ Let us await the result of my 
further inquiries,” he said. “ At all events, dear Waldenfels, 
send Beethoven to me immediately. You, most honored little 
woman, will also grant me a request, will you not ? ” 

“With pleasure, if it lies in my power.” 

“ Then take this rose a second time and keep it in memory 
of me.” 

“How gladly will I do it!” answered Frau Von Greth, 
“and as often as I see it it shall remind me of the kindness 
which your Electoral Grace has heaped upon the head of young 
Beethoven.” And with a slight bow she took the little golden 
rose for the second time from the hand of the ecclesiastical 
Elector. 

“ Now, one thing more. Step into this side room for a half 
hour, you will find good books for your amusement. When 
I need you again, I will open to you.” 

The young woman obeyed, and Waldenfels took his leave to 
send for Beethoven. After about half an hour the servant 
announced the chamber-musician. 

“ Let him come in,” said the Elector. 

Beethoven appeared. He was pale. His face wore an 
expression of fearful severity. 

“ Hid you compose a sonata for the piano a short time ago? ” 
asked the Elector in a business-like tone, as he walked up and 
down the room. 

“I did,” answered Beethoven, shortly and coldly. 

“ Can you play it from memory?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Sit down at the piano, and let me hear it.” 

Beethoven obeyed. It was the same composition, to the 
smallest note, which the Elector had been playing, only it 
sounded much more glorious with the perfect execution of the 
youthful master. 

The Elector, who, during the performance, had been walking 
to and fro, could not hear enough. He was indeed charmed, but 
contrary feelings were also thrilling his breast, — just anger at 

7 


98 


Beethoven : 


Berton’s miserable conduct, regret that he had given his word 
to Count Andechs, and the purpose here as always to act 
with strict justice. When Beethoven had finished he stood 
before him and asked, with a penetrating glance : — 

“ Did you write this composition?” 

“Yes, your Highness.” 

“ Then let me have it.” 

“I cannot.” 

“Why not?” 

“Count Waldenfels has the manuscript in his possession.” 

“Did you not take a copy?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Can I not have that?” 

“Nor that, it is lost, I mislaid it.” 

Max Franz went quietly to the marble table, took the notes 
from which he. had been playing, held them before Beethoven, 
and said, “Do you know this handwriting?” 

Ludwig grew pale as a corpse ; the memory and the horrible 
thought which came with it made him tremble. “ It is Berton’s 
hand-writing,” he said, scarcely audible. 

“Will you permit me to keep it?” answered the Elector. 
“It is your sonata.” 

“Just God!” cried Beethoven, forgetting himself. “Must 
I bear this also ? ” And the big, bright tears came into his 
eyes ; but he shook them off wildly, and stood before the prince 
hard and cold, like an antique marble statue. 

Max Franz observed him keenly. He stepped up to the 
young man, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and said, almost 
with a fatherly tone, “ Beethoven, I know your grief, and admire 
the manly strength with which you bear it. He who has the 
courage to struggle with fate is a bom king among men. For- 
get a false friend, and go to Vienna to train yourself for three 
years, under the guidance of Haydn, Albrechtsberger, and 
Salieri, to be a great musician.” 

“Your Highness,” cried Beethoven, amazed, “how can I 
thank you ? ” 

But Max Franz gave a smile of satisfaction, went towards 
the door of the next room, opened it, and said, “ Here, young 
man, is the right one to whom you owe your thanks.” 

At the same instant the young woman came forward. 


99 


A Biographical Romance. 

“Jeanette!” cried Ludwig, more amazed than before. 

“She is your intercessor,” said the Elector, “and your good 
angel. Take her blessing and go and make preparations for 
your journey. For the sake of your state of mind, you must 
leave Bonn as soon as possible.” 

Then Ludwig pressed glowing kisses upon Jeanette’s hand. 
A tear from the beautiful woman’s eye fell upon his head in 
consecration, the Elector said “Amen,” and led Frau Von 
Greth away on his arm. Two days later Ludwig was on his 
way to Vienna. 


“HERE LET US PITCH OUR TENTS.” 

Years had passed away since Ludwig Van Beethoven had 
left Bonn for Vienna for the first time. The death of his 
mother called him back, and again fate, always so hostile to him, 
decreed that a long time should pass by before he reached the 
imperial city of Austria for his education. At last, in the 
year 1792, when a young man of twenty-two years, his dearest 
wish was fulfilled, and he entered the longed-for Vienna. 

In the meantime one of the brightest stars there for him 
had paled, — Jeanette had left the capital with her husband, 
the latter being appointed commander at Temesvar, — but the 
residence in Vienna, very soon after his arrival, rewarded the 
long and courageous struggle. 

“Here let us pitch our tents,” cried Ludwig, after the first 
week. From the very beginning he was so convinced that he 
had found the right place for his general development that he 
resolved to remain there and not return to Bonn, even though 
the Elector should withdraw his pension.* 

Vienna was at that time the centre of everything great which 
was accomplished in the tone-art on German ground. Mozart, 
that illuminated genius in the realm of tone, who once said of 
Beethoven, “This youth will yet make his mark in the world,” 
Mozart, although a year among the dead, was still living fresh 


* Schindler, p. 25. 


100 


Beethoven : 


in the memory of all who had kept a heart sensitive to his 
divine revelations. Glück ’s spirit still lived fresh and vivid 
in the memories of ancient Vindobona; Father Haydn, 
Albrechtsberger, Schenk, Scbuppanzigh, Kraft, Linke, and as 
many other distinguished men in every department of human 
knowledge were still living and working intimately together. 

The times were especially favorable for the rise of a musical 
genius. In all Germany, and particularly in Vienna, in those 
days, people were devoted to music, and for the most part good 
music, for as yet they had but little bad. Not until the follow- 
ing century did this flood come upon the world, when the lower 
classes took up this divine art more and more as dilettants, but 
seldom bringing to it the necessary intellectual culture or the 
conception of what music and its lofty purpose are. 

Even the number of composers had not then as now grown to 
legions, but was limited to those truly endowed by nature. 
On the other hand people were honest with art, which is rarely 
the case at the present day, and to be honest with a cause to 
which one devotes his powers is of itself sufficient to advance 
it. Besides the great poets and artists of the latter part of 
the eighteenth century, Herda, Wieland, Lessing, and Goethe, 
together with Glück, Bach, Mozart, Haydn, Salieri exercised 
such a beneficent influence upon esthetic and intellectual culture 
that art and science became with a large part of the nobility 
the word of life. The German opera, which had just reached 
its culminating point in Glück and Mozart, stood on an equal 
rank with the Italian, which latter, at least in those happy 
days, esteemed truth in expression, dignity, and sublimity in 
all things more highly than mere flexibility of throat, hollow 
pathos, and sensuous charm. 

These two exercised a powerful influence upon all who bore 
in their hearts sensibility to what is truly beautiful and grand. 
There was besides a noble simplicity, such as is now no longer 
seen. 

Haydn’s and Händel’s oratorios, with a chorus of one 
hundred and fifty, or at most two hundred, members rejoiced 
in immense crowds and the truest appreciation, while in our 
over-cultivated times we demand a chorus of six hundred, eight 
hundred, or even a thousand, members in order to delight our- 
selves by the noise which this legion brings forth. In short, 


A Biographical Romance. 


101 


the beautiful word contentment was understood then ; people 
accepted what was great with gratitude, though offered with 
small means, sought in music spirit and soul as the highest 
satisfaction. 

There was not a suspicion of the materialism which controls 
our present musical performances. The diletianteism of that 
time was limited to its own place, and did not spread, as in the 
present day, to all lands and districts. In a word, music was 
loved and honored without ostentation. It was allowed to work 
its charm naturally, whether it came from four or four hundred 
performers, who used it as a sure means of cultivating mind 
and soul. The German people even then knew how, by a 
touch, to bring out of music simple greatness and pure human 
sensations. 

In this age, and among its noblest and best men, young 
Beethoven lived in the pleasant city of Vienna, where his 
genius found thousand fold encouragement to raise itself to 
freedom and independence. It was a glorious period for art, 
one perhaps never to return : as regards Beethoven especially 
a truly golden age.* All things united to make this a memo- 
rable epoch for Beethoven. Social as well as musical life 
soon offered him much that was delightful. While he was 
receiving instruction from Father Haydn and Albrechtsberger 
in harmony and counterpoint, from Salieri in the dramatic art, 
he made the acquaintance of Van Swieten, a very lovely old 
man, who valued art and artists according to their worth. Van 
Swieten was the cicerone of the new comer. He attached 
young Beethoven to himself in a wonderful manner. It is 
true that the “old papa,” as he was called, and as he liked to 
call himself, owed this especially to the musical enjoyment 
which his house offered to the young musician. For it was 
here chiefly that the works of Handel, Sebastian Bach, and the 
great Italian masters up to Palestrina were executed, and in so 
exquisite a manner that Van Swieten’s musical soirees were 
long held in the memory of all who had the good fortune to 
take part in them. 

But in social life quite another star of fortune was to rise for 
him. Beethoven made the acquaintance of the family of Prince 


*See Schindler’s Biography of Ludwig Van Beethoven, p. 24, and pp. 41-44. 


102 


Beethoven : 


Lichnowsky, a pupil and friend of Mozart, who was a true 
nohleman, and, what was still more, a Maecenas in the broadest 
sense of the word. Even at that time, when the Austrian 
nobility were almost all fine men, his equal in culture, artistic 
taste, and large generosity was scarcely to be found. His wife, 
Princess Charlotte ( nee Countess of Thun), was a woman of 
similar tastes and talents. She was a tall, handsome woman, 
and the prince and his wife were among the leading people of 
Vienna not only in elegance and hospitality but in the 
encouragement of art, especially of music, and in this harbor of 
culture and fine manners Beethoven found a home. The 
prince knew him at first through Haydn, became his patron and 
fatherly friend, and the princess was a second mother to the 
talented youth. 

Could Ludwig Van Beethoven wish more? “ Here let us 
pitch our tents,” he had cried, immediately after his arrival in 
Vienna, and now he lived in the palace of Prince Lichnowsky, 
who regarded him as his son, gave him a home in his own house, 
and a salary of six hundred florins, which was to place Beet- 
hoven on a firm footing. 

With what admiring devotion everyone clung to him ! The 
love of the prince and princess followed him, and did not 
diminish in spite of the rude demeanor which Beethoven could no 
more overcome here than before in the Breunings’ house. The 
princess really spoiled him by indulgence, for though he was too 
often moody and gloomy, she thought that everything he did 
was artistic and original. Could the result of such indulgent 
treatment fail with a treatment like Ludwig’s ? Whence should 
Ludwig gain the necessary support for conflicts with the out- 
side world? But of this no one thought for the moment. 
Ludwig Van Beethoven had never been better off. He was 
right to cry, as he did then in Vienna, “ Here let us pitch our 
tents.” 


IN THE PALACE OF PRINCE LICHNOWSKY. 

Two years had passed away since Beethoven arrived in 
Vienna, when two young men made their way one evening to 


A Biographical Romance. 


103 


Prince Lichnowsky’s palace to visit the celebrated master, 
Beethoven. They both had fresh, interesting faces, whose 
similarity was too great not to show them at once to be twins. 
Gerhard and Karl Kügelgen, returning from Rome, were on 
the point of visiting their young friend. 

That lover of art, the Elector of Cologne, had also formed 
an affection for these young men, and had sent them to Rome 
to perfect themselves as artists after Gerhard had been suffi- 
ciently prepared under the historic painter, Zick, at Coblenz, 
and Karl under the landscape painter, Schultz, in France. 
They had made great progress there, and were now on their 
way home, already celebrated as artists. They could not deny 
themselves the pleasure of visiting their old friend, Beethoven, 
whose compositions were also much talked of in the world, and 
who, as they heard, was living like a prince in Prince Lichnow- 
sky’s family. They were now standing before the palace, and 
Gerhard said : — 

“You do not know how curious I am to see Ludwig again, 
especially in his present circumstances. There was always 
something commanding and princely about him, so he is in the 
right place, perhaps.” 

“ But will he wish to know us ? ” said Karl. 

“ How can you doubt it? ” answered the brother. “ In spite 
of a certain pride, and many peculiarities, Ludwig was always a 
good man who dealt honorably by his friends.” 

“But, as our host informed us, he now lives almost wholly 
among the nobility, who treat him with the greatest respect.” 

“Yet he is without doubt among his companions in art. 
Such a rich nature as Ludwig’s may attract in those circles ; he 
can never lower himself to a tool. But we shall soon see.” 
With these words the two brothers stepped under the gateway 
of the palace, and approached the Swiss house-master, who was 
striding up and down with a contemplative expression. 

“Can we speak to Herr Van Beethoven?” asked Gerhard. 

The Swiss, who seemed to belong to a race of giants, for he 
was a good head taller than Gerhard, stroked his beard with a 
solemn air, stretched out his right hand with his silver-headed 
cane, cast a penetrating glance at the simply-dressed artists, and 
uttered at length a prolonged “Well ” 

“Which way shall we turn?” asked Gerhard. The bear- 


104 


Beethoven : 


ing of the Swiss was still the same. His glance still ran inquir- 
ingly over the faces and forms of the travellers. 

“Well!” resounded again from the forest of his beard. 

‘ May I ask the names of the gentlemen ? ” 

“ The brothers Kügelgen, from Rome,” returned Gerhard, 
impatiently. 

“ Well !” repeated the giant; but the “from Rome” may 
have made a little impression upon him. Without changing 
his position in the least, he called to a servant in the lodge, and 
ordered him to conduct the gentlemen to Herr Van Beethoven’s 
room. 

“ Well,” said the Swiss, as the twin brothers bowed on leav- 
ing, “ they look respectable, but a suspicious resemblance.” 

In the meantime, the two Kiigelgens followed the servant up 
the stairs, and through the corridors. He was a jolly fellow, 
with wide-Open eyes and a pleasant manner. 

“You wish to see Herr Van Beethoven?” he said, turning 
round. 

“ Certainly,” answered Gerhard. 

“ I will conduct you to his room,” continued the servant, 
pleasantly. “ I can’t vouch for his being there.” 

“If he should be out, we could come again,” said the elder 
Kügelgen. 

Here the servant smiled sarcastically. Then he said, “ But 
the gentlemen might make many journeys in vain.” 

“ Why?” asked Karl. 

“Because Herr Van Beethoven does not always live here. 
It is true that our most gracious prince, during the two years 
which Beethoven has spent in Vienna, has given him a delight- 
ful residence in his house, where Beethoven has lived and still 
lives, ” 

“But ” 

“ But there are times now and then,” continued the servant, 
“ when the young gentleman does not like to stay at home ; 
then he runs away, and lives somewhere else.” 

Gerhard and Karl looked at each other with astonishment. 
Their look said, “Then he is still the same old fellow.” In 
the meantime, they had reached the room which belonged to 
their dear friend. The servant knocked, but no “ Come in ” 
was heard. He pressed the latch, the door which was not 
locked, opened, and all three entered. 


A Biographical Romance . 


105 


Here were two rooms richly furnished, and with a taste and 
comfort which gave evidence of the greatest care. In the front 
room stood a fine piano from the newly-established manufactory 
of Streicher, at that time a great rarity, and beside it at a writ- 
ing desk stood a chair, whose embroidery bore witness to the 
practised hand of a female artist, — it might be the princess 
herself. 

But how did it look here now ? The rooms were unoccupied. 
Everything lay in confusion. Books and notes were scattered 
about on the piano, the chairs, and the floor. Pieces of cloth- 
ing hung over the backs of the most expensive chairs, or peeped 
curiously out of the half-opened drawer of a bureau. A light 
coating of dust had collected on every object, showing most con- 
vincingly that the occupant of the room had not entered it for 
some days. 

“ G-entlemen, ,, said the servant, with his sarcastic smile, 
“ you see that the bird has flown again, as the prince says on 
such occasions.” 

“ You do not know when Herr Van Beethoven will return ? ” 

“Betum?” said the servant, “oh, he is in the house every 
day. This evening, for example, he will certainly come, for it is 
a musical evening, but when he will be pleased to enter his room 
again, who can tell ? Perhaps in a quarter of an hour, perhaps 
not for four weeks.” 

“ Does he not dine here ? ” 

“If he feels like it, yes ; but when he has these moods, he 
prefers a dirty inn to the prince’s table.” 

Gerhard could only shake his head. How different had been 
his idea of Beethoven. Then time had had no effect upon him 
in this respect, and the old rhapsodies were at their height here 
in Vienna as formerly in Bonn. As they left the cozy room, 
he asked if no one knew at all where Herr Van Beethoven 
might be found. 

“ Oh, yes,” said the servant, pleasantly, “ if the gentlemen 
will go into the Hunter’s Horn, they will certainly find him. 
There, in the third story, he has hired a little room for a year, 
that he may find a shelter when he runs away from here. If 
you do not find him there, he is sitting down stairs reading the 
newspaper or composing in the back room, which is like a cellar, 
and has to be lighted on the brightest day. But he shuts him- 


106 


Beethoven : 


self in, and you must call out your name if you wish him to 
open to you.” 

The two brothers thanked the servant for this information, 
asked the way to the Hunter’s Horn, and started in that direc- 
tion. When they arrived there they were shown at once into 
the third story. At the peril of their lives they stumbled up 
the three stairways, and found the door of the room to which 
they had been directed. It stood wide open, and permitted a 
glance into the apartment. In the centre stood a table of 
rough wood, on the side a bed which had not been touched 
since the night before, perhaps not for many nights. Three 
common chairs and a clothes-press completed the furniture, with 
the exception of an old spinet, half eaten by worms, at which 
a broad-shouldered man sat playing, with his back toward 
the door. 

But what playing ! The musician could be no other in 
God’s wide earth than young Beethoven. And he it was 
indeed, for, closing with a magnificent fermate, the broad- 
shouldered form turned, and the friends recognized the strong 
features of Ludwig Van Beethoven. 

“ Halloa! ” cried Beethoven with his stentorian voice, “ what 
do I see ? Gerhard ! Karl ! ” and he sprang up, shouting, and 
clasped both hands at once in his strong arms. 

Then there were rejoicings and congratulations. With heart- 
felt love, the friends pressed each other’s hands, and then 
followed questions about the recent past and the present, show- 
ing the genuine interest which they felt in each other. 

“And you are from Home? ’’cried Beethoven with spark- 
ling eyes; “ from Borne, from glorious Italy, the fatherland of 
so much that is great, and of many great men. You do not know 
how I envy you this, although it is fine here in Vienna, too. 
But, Italy, Italy ! It is truly classic ground, and I always 
feel as if everything there must inspire one with the charm of 
those glorious times.” 

Here Gerhard shook his head, smiling, and said, “ It is beauti- 
ful there, and we have seen much that is grand, but we have 
often been disappointed when we have been filled with youth- 
ful enthusiasm, as you are now. The ground is classic, but the 
men and their doings are often very prosaic.” 

“ But you must have seen and learned much.” 


107 


A Biographical Romance. 

“ Oh, yes, we have at least studied the ancients, and especially 
Raphael and Michael Angelo, with enthusiasm and unwearied 
industry.” 

“ Fortunate men,” said Beethoven, laying his hand upon the 
knee of each, as they sat on either side of him. “ How your 
souls must be enlarged as you stand still in thought, and look 
over the highest summits you have won.” 

“ Yes, that is an elevating sensation,” said Gerhard, and the 
charm of grand memories was reflected in his face. “ For 
example, when I think of Venice, of that great being which, 
as Goethe has so gloriously said, sprang from the bosom of the 
sea, as Pallas from the head of Jupiter ; or when I recall to 
my mind the picture of the Colosseum, and of St. Peter’s at 
Rome, at the sight of which one first learns that art as well as 
nature can annul all rules, — this is grandeur and glory of 
which we really have no idea.” 

“And, then, the Italian sky,” Karl continued; “it seems 
as if its clearness, and the peaceful repose which its deep blue 
pours into the soul, were reflected in every work of art, — yes, 
in one’s own heart. After a long residence in Italy, one 
becomes himself clear, calm, and peaceful.” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Beethoven, as if in a dream, “and every 
day new, grand impressions ! Oh, I must go to Italy yet ! ” 

“ Why, are you not happy here?” asked Karl, astonished, — 
“here where the great masters of tone live, — Haydn, and 
Salieri, ” 

“Yes, indeed, I am,” passing his hand quickly over his fore- 
head, “and I should be an ungrateful man if I were not. I 
have here made the acquaintance of noble men who have treated 
me with affection, and skillful men whom I esteem, although I 
learn but little from them. It is true that depends upon myself. 
I am just as poor a scholar as a teacher. The devil knows I 
lack patience for either.” 

“ But your name as a composer already has some fame ? ” 

“I have no complaint to make. I have six or seven pub- 
lishers for every piece, and even more if I take any trouble 
about it. They do not make an agreement. I make my demand, 
and they pay,”* 


* Beethoven’s own words. 


108 


Beethoven : 


“ That is good,” said Gerhard, “ for it shows how they appre- 
ciate your efforts. But, tell us, man, why do you stick here, 
in this owl’s nest, when you might live like a prince? We 
looked for you in the palace of Prince Lichnowsky.” 

Gerhard could say no more, for Beethoven began to laugh so 
heartily. He had to jump up, and run up and down the room, 
that he might not choke with laughter. 

“You found the bird flown,” he cried, still laughing. “They 
will be making faces up there again, especially the house- 
master, with his red head and his intolerable air of a protector. 
But it will make no difference, for I cannot do otherwise. I 
will not sell my freedom for all the gold in the world, and to 
show them that I still keep it, I run off — up and away — when- 
ever and as often as I wish.” And he laughed again, so that 
the walls shook. 

“But,” remarked Gerhard, modestly, “will you not offend 
the prince and princess in this way?” 

“Pshaw!” cried Beethoven, “they know me by this time. 
They know that I love and honor them because they are good 
people. The prince’s title and the gold make no difference, 
and I will not have my freedom and independence taken from 
me by the emperor himself.” 

“You ought not, dear friend,” said Gerhard, “but ” 

“But,” repeated Beethoven, solemnly, “I must know my 
position here, and also my life’s element. Bank and riches 
have always been very indifferent things to me, and are still, — 
mere accidentals for which I have no special respect. I recog- 
nize in man only the man; but to bow before Mammon and its 
keepers would, in my eyes, be perfect blasphemy.”* 

“ How he is throwing away the good and the bad together 
again,” cried Gerhard, cheerfully. “Did you not say yourself 
that you honored the prince and princess as good, cultivated 
people ? ” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” answered Beethoven; “ and that they 
are. Never can I thank them enough for all the kindness 
which they have shown to me. But my principle remains the 
right one, — only intellect, and that which is truly divine in 
man, tower by their power above everything material and acci- 


* Beethoven’s own words. 


A Biographical Romance. 


109 


dental. Here is true nobility, and nowhere else.* However,” 
added Ludwig, quietly, “ I have two other reasons for living 
at times away from the Lichnowskys’ house. First, it is painful 
to me to live always by the kindness of other people ; and when 
this thought comes over me, it oppresses me so that I run away 
and live for a while upon my own means. You will laugh, for 
it is this very extreme kindness of the prince and princess 
which often brings me to despair. I tell you they are spoiling 
me there with a genuine motherly love, which often goes so far 
that the next thing will be for the princess to have a glass bell 
made to cover me, that no unworthy person should touch me or 
breathe upon me.* Now, do you understand my earnestness? ” 

“Perfectly,” cried Gerhard, laughing. “What would Frau 
Yon Breuning say to it?” 

“The good woman !” replied Beethoven; “she would say 
‘He has his rhapsody again.’ ” 

“ I suppose you write to Bonn often?” Karl asked. 

“I -write?” repeated Beethoven. “Nobody can desire 

that from me. Letter-writing is horrible to me. If one could 
only compose them in notes? But, children, let us go to dinner. 
We shall remain together, shall we not?” 

“ Do you not dine with the prince ? ” 

“Seldom. The thing is too burdensome to me. The time 
of dining is extended to four o’clock, and I must be at home 
every day at half past three, must dress better, must take care 
of my beard, etc. I can’t stand that; so I would rather run 
into a hotel, if it is ever so poor, and dine for my money.” 

Karl and Gerhard saw that nothing could be done but to 
assent in silence, so they went down to the table with Ludwig, 
where they met a very mixed company. Clerks, reviewers, a 
few civil officers of low rank, but also the gentle and amiable 
Schenck, the composer of the Village Barber, whom Beethoven 
esteemed very highly as a thorough connoisseur in musical 
science. The conversation between these four cultivated men 
was soon animated. They talked of Italy and its treasures of 
art ; and this subject led to the fundamental relations of beauty 
in the abstract. All agreed that the sense of beauty required 
a multitude of impressions, and that these separate impressions 


♦Schindler; Biography of Beethoven, p. 30. 


110 


Beethoven : 


must be bound together by simple relations, regulated according 
to eternal laws, that the mind might be in a condition to grasp 
them as a whole. 

Schenck referred to the reverberations which proceed from 
resounding instruments, and to*the fact that height and depth 
of tone depend exactly upon the rapidity of these reverbera- 
tions, and upon the length of the waves which they create. 
Grerhard Kiigelgen explained the law of reverberations, and 
pointed to the relation existing between eye and ear. 

“What do we learn from all this?” said Beethoven, “but 
that the original character of everything which we call beauti- 
ful, even of the spiritually beautiful, is the same. To the ear 
tones, to the eye forms, must lead the thoughts in an analogous 
manner, and these thoughts must be whole and conclusive 
if they are to satisfy our souls.” 

“ Certainly,” answered the elder of the Kiigelgens. “ The 
eye, therefore, desires symmetry, and the ear harmony. One 
is the counterpart of the other, the two forming a complete 
whole.” 

“Oh, it is remarkable,” cried Beethoven, “how nature her- 
self steps forward with her eternal, fundamental laws ! ” 

“ How do you mean?” asked Karl. 

“Why,” Beethoven went on, “it shows itself everywhere. 
Does not sound itself make itself known through visible forms? ” 

“ Only think of the figures of sound ! ” said Grerhard. 

“ If you draw the bow of a violin across a glass plate covered 
with fine sand,” said Ludwig, “figures will appear in the sand 
which is stirred by the reverberating glass, sometimes symmet- 
rical, sometimes unsymmetrical, as the resounding tone is pure 
or impure. Is not that a striking proof that for eye and ear a 
similar law of harmony exists?” 

“Surely,” said the others. 

“Do you know,” said Beethoven, “what I therefore consider 
the life-work of every true artist?” 

“ Without doubt, the unwearied search for this fundamental 
law of harmony in nature.” 

“Exactly,” said Beethoven, with sparkling eyes. “That 
Plato has already done with regard to pure intellect. For us, 
artists, it has still another extraordinary value. This perpetual 
observing and inquiring strengthens the critical power of the 


A Biographical Romance. 


Ill 


eye and ear, and of this critical power the perfect artist must 
at once make himself master, that he may with equal ease see 
through the relations which lie at the foundation of forms and 
tones. He who has this power stands on the heights as a genu- 
ine artist/’ 

At this moment a young man with a full beard rushed into 
the room and stepped up to Beethoven. “Herr Van Beet- 
hoven,” he cried, excited, “you know that I am your friend, 
your ardent worshiper. Will you, then, permit me to be angry, 
to be furiously angry ?” 

“ Pray, pray, do not trouble yourself at all,” said Beethoven, 
laughing. “I will hold back neither my friends nor my ene- 
mies from an exercise so very good for the digestion.” 

“Do not laugh,” cried the other, again seeking eagerly in 
his pockets for something which, apparently .from pure eager- 
ness, he was unable to find. 

“Do not laugh: you will be terribly angry.” 

“I hope not,” said Beethoven. 

“A wretched, worthless criticism upon your last sonata,” 
cried the young man, quite beside himself. 

“You must annihilate the miserable fool of a critic in an 
engagement in full armor.” 

At these words all looked with anxiety at Beethoven, know- 
ing well how passionate he could be. But Beethoven remained 
as quiet as before, and said, with surprising coolness : — 

“ It may not be so bad. Have you the paper with you to 
which you refer ? ” 

“Certainly, certainly,” said the other. “I have brought it 
with me that you may refer to it. Here it is! ” and, trembling 
with excitement and anger, the young man gave Beethoven a 
newspaper. 

Beethoven took it, and read with the greatest coolness. At 
first his expression darkened a little, but soon a smile ran over 
his face. There was a royal dignity and a compassion border- 
ing on contempt in his expression as he said : — 

“It is not worth the trouble.” 

“What?” cried the young man who had brought the paper. 
“This wretch ” 

“ Assigns to me a place in the mad-house,” said Beethoven, 
smiling. “ Well, why not? Perhaps I might have a blessed 


112 


Beethoven: 


work there, and bring the poor feeble-minded creatures back to 
life by the power of music. If it amuses these good people to 
say or write such things of me, let them go on forever.” * 

“And you will be silent?” cried the master’s enthusiastic 
friend ; “silent when they have abused the first composition of 
our time, not only unjustly but disgracefully?” 

“For that very reason,” said Beethoven, soothingly. “I 
thank you, sir, for your sympathy, but my rule is to keep silence 
against all criticisms or attacks so long as they are directed 
only against my character as an artist.” And, bowing pleas- 
antly to his enthusiastic worshiper, Beethoven took up the con- 
versation with his friends again with undisturbed cheerfulness. 
Gerhard and Karl, and indeed the whole company at the table, 
were amazed, and bowed down in silence at this amiable repose 
and grandeur. There was a special reason for this cheerful- 
ness today. Ludwig V an Beethoven had, a few days before, 
as he himself felt, fiuished his first great master-piece, which 
was to be performed this evening at Prince Lichnowsky’s. 
This was that trio for the piano, violin, and violoncello which 
created such great excitement when it became known, and laid 
the foundation for that fame which was afterwards to fill the 
world. The consciousness that this must come shone even now, 
like a sunny spring-day, over his soul, lifting him on light wings 
above envy, malice, and all the turmoil of life. Added to this 
was the prospect for the evening, and the visit of his friends. 
Was it not natural that he should feel happy and proud as a 
king? 

“ I wish that you knew it,” he said to the two artists. “You 
must go with me this evening to Prince Lichnowsky’s. The 
prince and princess will be delighted to make your acquaint- 
ance ; besides Tischlein, from Rome, has already written about 
you.” 

The friends wished to refuse, as they had not been intro- 
duced, but it was of no use. 

“ If I, who am almost an adopted son of the house, introduce 
you,” said Ludwig, laughing, “you surely need no paper scrawl. 
Besides, you will thank me, for you will never know more lovely 
people than the Lichnowskys, and I think that the music that 
we shall execute will suit you also.” 


* Beethoven’s own words. 


A Biographical Romance. 


113 


The matter was decided. They spent a rare afternoon, and 
Gerherd and Karl in the evening, at the appointed hour, fol- 
lowed their friend to Prince Lichnowsky’s palace. 

Ludwig had not said too much. The two painters in their 
two-fold character as skillful artists and as friends of Beethoven 
were received with unusual kindness. 

The company was a select one. Almost all the nobility of 
Vienna and the great musicians, Haydn and Salieri, Schuppan- 
zigh, Sina, Weiss, and Linke, were present, those four celebrities 
who by their quartette were such a glory to the musical circle 
of Prince Lichnowsky.* One can imagine how the new trios of 
Beethoven were executed, what an impression they produced, 
and what laurels the young composer won. 

Prince Lichnowsky clasped him in his arms before all pres- 
ent. The princess quite forgot that the obstinate bird had flown 
again from the cozy nest which she had so lovingly prepared for 
him. Haydn and Salieri expressed their fullest appreciation, 
and the rest of the noble company exhausted themselves in 
praises and flattery. 

Beethoven was the fashion with the nobility. The inn-keeper 
had told the artists this, and they found it confirmed here. 
They saw that everything about him was considered beautiful, 
amiable, and distinguished, and that was laughed at which, in 
another man, would have been censured as a gross rudeness. 
How did Beethoven stand among these men, sparkling in gold 
and diamonds? As among his equals, only that the conscious- 
ness of having accomplished something glorious today, and the 
thought that he bore in the depths of his soul something far 
greater pressed upon his broad and lofty brow an invisible but 
brightly-shining crown. How all the elegant ladies crowded and 
pressed around him ! They sought to gain something from him 
by flattery. Then his brow grew suddenly dark. 

“ Oh, yes, yes, good Herr Van Beethoven,” the stately Count- 
ess Browne was whispering, “you will certainly have the 
kindness to play another fantasia on the piano for us. You 
play so charmingly that it seems like hearing the angels in 
Heaven.” 

“Excuse me, most gracious countess,” answered Beethoven, 

♦Schindler, p. 39. Marx; Ludwig Van Beethoven, Part First, p. 38. 

8 


114 


Beethoven : 


dryly, “if I do not respond to the wish of yourself and the other 
ladies.” 

“ But why not, dear Ludwig? ” interrupted the Princess Lich- 
nowsky, pleasantly, laying her hand with motherly kindness on 
the arm of her favorite. Only look about in the circle which 
surrounds you. How can a man resist all these charming eyes ? ” 
But Ludwig’s brow grew darker and darker. “You know, 
my best friend,” he said, 

“I know,” returned the princess, “that you have just en- 
chanted us all by your trios, which cannot be surpassed. But, 
dear enchanter, we wish not merely to peep into this fairy gar- 
den of your kingdom. You must permit us to wander a little 
through its labyrinths and taste its glories again.” 

“ That is,” said Beethoven, as before, “I am to make a little 
music as one serves tea.” 

All laughed at this reply. The princess, who also found this 
rough originality charming, tapped her favorite gently on the 
mouth with her handsome fan, and said, with beaming eyes : — 
“Pascal! you ran away from us again, too, but this evening 
we will keep you ; if my motherly love cannot do this, perhaps 
the loveliness of the charming Princess Esterhazy can do it.” 
With these words the lady of the house took a step back to 
make way for the Princess Esterhazy. 

She was a divine beauty. A figure like Juno’s, tall, power- 
ful, with a full, magnificent form, which, as Gerhard had 
already whispered to his brother, was superior to all the antiques. 
A well-chosen and elegant toilet set off these advantages, and 
her angelic face beamed with youth and child-like good spirits. 
She was, without doubt, at that time the greatest beauty of 
Vienna, and at all the assemblies of the nobility was the adored 
queen of all. Of course, this charming princess was aware of 
this. She, therefore, turned with a consciousness of victory 
to the master, and said, with an enchanting smile : — 

“He who composes such wonderful poems in tune as Herr 
Van Beethoven is one of the consecrated ones in the kingdom 
of poetry, but the poets have from of old been chivalrous and 
ardent worshipers of the ladies. Will you refuse our request ? ” 
“ Oh, no, indeed, dear Herr Van Beethoven,” sounded at the 
same time from the lips of a multitude of ladies, who sur- 
rounded Ludwig like a magnificent bouquet of flowers. 


A Biographical Romance. 


115 


“You are our Orpheus,” cried Princess Esterhazy. “When 
you play, we stand still, enchanted like the Symplegades, and 
let even the Argonauts pass by.” 

“Yes, you are our Orpheus,” cried a multitude of voices. 

“ But I am not your hand-organ,” answered Beethoven, 
grimly, “ which must play and squeak when people touch it as 
the mood takes them. My soul is full of grand and holy inspira- 
tions, and I cannot serve as music-maker;” and, with a decided 
movement, he made a path for himself, and left the hall in anger. 
This time they did not laugh, but only tried to smile, while 
Princess Lichnowsky, in her inexhaustible kindness and indul- 
gence endeavored to excuse the behavior of her favorite. 

“ He is simply a genius,” she said, with a somewhat forced 
good-nature, for she too felt really hurt; “and such a power- 
ful genius we must indulge in his originality. Ludwig is like 
a comet, which takes its own course, and asks naught of the rules 
to which the other stars and suns are subject, but when it shows 
itself in its glory, all stand still with rapture and admiration. 
The trios were certainly divine.” 

“ Oh, yes, they were,” returned the Princess Esterhazy, 
•coldly, and turned to Archbishop Rudolph, who was just mov- 
ing toward the ladies. 


THE OLD PAPA AND THE TEMPLE OF THE MUSES. 

In the meantime Beethoven had rushed away, leaving the 
whole company in the lurch, not excepting his friends, of whom 
he no longer had a thought, — rushed away in anger that they 
had spoiled his pure, holy joy, and the success of his newest crea- 
tion, by silly persistency. They knew very well his antipathy 
to this playing in public. Why must they force him to extreme 
measures ? Why spoil his evening so wretchedly ? He ran 
through a few streets, but his ill humor would not vanish till 
the ‘ old papa ’ came into his mind. 

“Yes,” he cried eagerly, “I will go to the ‘old papa’; there 


116 


Beethoven : 


I shall be understood, and there alone shall I find again 
cheerfulness and repose of soul.” 

The ‘old papa’ was none other than the old Van Swieten, 
that dear creature of whom the musical world of Vienna even 
now speaks with reverence. At that time the name Van Swie- 
ten had a good report not in Vienna alone hut in all Europe. 
The father of the ‘old papa,’ Gerhard Van Swieten, born at 
Leyden, on the 17th of May, 1700, was one of the most dis- 
tinguished physicians of his time. The best pupil of the world- 
renowned Boerhave, he received his degree in 1725, and soon 
after began his practice in Leyden with unusual success, so that 
in a short time, probably through the efforts of Boerhave, his 
teacher and friend, he was appointed professor. Good fortune 
is always followed by the envious, and these were not lacking 
to Van Swieten. Enemies appeared on every side, his Catholic 
religion being made a pretext, and he found himself thus forced 
to lay down his professorship. 

Van Swieten’s reputation was, however, so well grounded 
that the Empress Maria Theresa, as soon as she learned his fate, 
sent for him at once to come to Vienna, and appointed him physi- 
eian-in-ordinary. 

He now gave himself up to his art with entire devotion, estab- 
lished the first clinical institute in Vienna, and also contributed 
much to the improvement of the university there, where he even 
explained the aphorisms of its teachers. It was he who, as direc- 
tor of the Imperial Library, opened this valuable institution to 
the public, and made it useful. Nor did the empress leave his 
services unrewarded. He became councillor, president of the 
faculty, director of several medical institutes, and also censor. 
The duties of the last office he fulfilled with too much strict- 
ness. When he died, in 1772, the empress erected a monu- 
ment to his memory. His son, Gottfried V an Swieten, lived and 
became celebrated as the intimate friend of Haydn, Mozart, and 
Beethoven, more particularly because he revised the English 
text for Haydn’s Creation, and wrote that for The Seasons. 
His service for music in Vienna was still greater, for it was 
be especially who caused the works of Handel and Bach to be 
performed, and formed a musical association of members of the 
nobility for this purpose. It is also well known that Mozart, at 
Van Swieten’s suggestion, arranged four of Handel’s oratorios 


A Biographical Romance. 117 

for a greater variety of instruments, according to the necessities 
of the time.* 

Yan Swieten was now sixty-one years old. Everybody in 
Vienna knew him, the kindly man in the simple gray coat, with 
open face, still almost blooming, and the snow-white hair. 
Every child knew also that, because he felt for everyone a truly 
fatherly love, he bore the name of the ‘old papa,’ and they 
called him by this name, which Yan Swieten, who was good- 
nature itself, received with a pleasant smile. 

Here in Yan Swieten’s house Beethoven was most happy dur- 
ing his whole residence in Vienna. He had, indeed, christened 
this house the temple of the muses, for the sake of the classical 
music which was performed there. Besides, the ‘ old papa ’ was a 
poet, and loved to attract the masters of other arts to his even- 
ing entertainments. A rich intellectual life was developed here, 
in which Beethoven moved as in his element, receiving and 
scattering new thoughts, and finding nourishment for his mind, 
which was thirsting for knowledge. 

This connection was an original one, for Y an Swieten was as 
original as Beethoven. There was in all Vienna no greater 
musical ogre than the ‘ old papa. ’ When they had been enjoy- 
ing music all the evening till deep into the night, and all the 
friends had gone, Beethoven must stay longer, and, in addition 
to what they had already heard, play a half dozen of Bach’s 
fugues as an evening blessing, as the old gentleman said pleas- 
antly. Of course, it was often too late then for Ludwig to think 
of going home, and for such cases a room and a bed stood always 
ready. 

Yan Swieten usually foresaw that it would be so, and men- 
tioned it in his written invitations to Beethoven. Of the few 
letters addressed by this remarkable man to Ludwig, and pre- 
served by him to his old age, one says, “If you are not 
engaged next Wednesday, I should like to see you at my house 
at half past eight in the evening with your night-cap in your 
pocket.” t 

Those were glorious days and nights for our hero, and he 
was thinking of them now as he rushed through the dark streets 
of Vienna. 

♦This patron of art died in his seventieth year at Vienna, in 1803. 
t See Schindler’s Biography of Ludwig Van Beethoven. 


118 


Beethoven : 


There lay the colossal city, like a giant who had wrapped him- 
self in a dark mantle. The noisy, hustling crowd had long 
been silent. The quiet of the grave succeeded to the howls 
and shrieks, and the frantic rattling of hurrying wagons. The 
stillness was pleasant to Ludwig. His anger and excitement 
were gradually allayed. Yes, now when, as he expected, he 
saw that there was still a light at Van Swieten’s, both had 
completely vanished. 

As it was already late at night, Beethoven found the front 
door locked, but that did not trouble him, for for such cases 
these two original men had made their arrangements. Beet- 
hoven took a whistle from his pocket and gave a signal. Immedi- 
ately afterwards the window in the second story opened, a little 
form in night-dress and night-cap appeared, and, without saying 
a word, let down the door-key by a long cord. Beethoven now 
gave a peculiar jerk of the cord to let him know that it was really 
he, whereupon the old papa above let go, and Beethoven, now 
in possession of the key and the cord, wound up the latter, and 
by means of the former entered the house. In a few minutes 
he was in Van Swieten’s room, telling the ‘old papa’ what had 
happened. 

‘‘I can imagine,” said Van Swieten, “that you were 
obstinate again, and would not play at the request of the ladies.” 

“But, dear, good ‘papa,’ I had played in my trios.” 

“A fantasia more or less would have made no difference.” 

“ How can you talk so, ‘ papa ? ’ ” 

“ Do we not often play here till midnight?” 

“Certainly,” said Beethoven, “but only before ears that 
understand music. By Heaven and all the saints, it was not 
childish obstinacy of me, but the mood was lacking. I was enthu- 
siastic and happy in the thought that my trios had succeeded so 
well. I felt at that beautiful moment that grand creations were 
reposing within me. My soul was stirred into chaos as if worlds 
were about to arise, and into the midst of all these sacred feelings 
they throw the wish that I shall make a little more music for the 
entertainment of a gossiping, coqueting company, as a bulfinch, 
to which a few airs have been taught, whistles the airs when 
the pitch is given. No ! ” cried Beethoven, decidedly, “ the 
divine Musica is too sacred to me for that. Let them take 
offense at it or not. Let them exclude me from their circle; 


119 


A Biographical Romance. 

I will never submit to their childish whims. They must recog- 
nize the nobility of the soul, the consecration of art, and these, 
with their divine inheritance of freedom and majesty, do not bow 
before princesses, be they never so enchantingly beautiful.” 

Van Swieten laughed at the holy zeal of his young friend, 
while Beethoven strode up and down the room. 

“It often drives me to despair,” he said, “that the present 
race of men has no imagination. The ancients were superior 
in everything,” he cried, with ardent enthusiasm. “When the 
eye turns from the tumult of the day, how the loveliest dreams 
visit us! Where did Apelles see his Jupiter? where Pindar and 
Homer the forms of their heroes and gods? ” Beethoven went 
on, his powerful figure drawn up so that it stood like an 
antique figure of a god before the old man. “ Have I not 
myself experienced something like this ? When in lonely hours 
of the night I have forgotten the stir of the world, has not 
Fancy come down to me upon her shining wings, and a fullness 
of tone been poured through my soul? Like flashes from 
higher spheres it thrilled me, till it grew clearer and clearer, 
and the tones and accords grew broader and more powerful, till 
Fancy drew from her eternal spring and illuminated what she 
had created with the light of the ideal. Forward, then, thought 
presses. Out beyond the limited space of actual life, to 
improving and ennobling creation. This, then, is the task of 
art, not to stand still by reality, but to attack it and contrast it 
with the forms of its perfected purity.” 

“ That is so, my friend,” said Van Swieten in a voice which 
betrayed emotion, “but here the artist stands on a dangerous 
precipice. Just here it is important that the imagination 
should not separate itself from the reason, for mankind excited 
will easily take the world of fancy for the world of reality.” 

Beethoven’s face was like marble, and, as he spoke, these 
words were uttered with convincing force, “ Then thought must 
beat her side, and thought is God himself, who controls and 
directs all things, even the wildest fancy.” 

And he went quietly to the instrument, opened it, and impro- 
vised wonderfully. All the flood-gates of the soul were 
opened, all the heights and depths of pleasure and pain 
resounded, till the tones became more and more involved, and 
flew about in wild, strange harmonies, like comets through the 


120 


Beethoven : 


spaces of infinity. Then the clock struck two, Beethoven arose, 
took one of the candles which were burned quite low, said 
good-night, and without another word went to the familiar 
sleeping-room. 


RUNNING HIS HEAD AGAINST THE WALL. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven was living in the Lichnowsky 
palace again. His two friends, the artists, had had the pleas- 
ure of seeing him established there the very next day after the 
occurrence which had caused them also the greatest embarrass- 
ment. Probably he felt that he had especially wounded the 
feelings of the princess who loved him with such a motherly 
love, and so wished to make good his fault by giving himself 
up again to the wings of her protection. 

But the kindness of the noble woman far surpassed the 
expectations of Gerhard and Karl, for on that same evening 
she excused her favorite everywhere, and said to Gerhard 
himself : — 

“ Though you may think sometimes that your friend is lack- 
ing in delicacy, the reason lies in his powerful nature, which 
breaks all bounds, and wishes to go about unfettered, setting 
aside all the conventionalities of the drawing-room.” 

This indulgence extended from the princess to all present. 
Not a quarter of an hour had passed when the first vexation at 
Beethoven’s reckless conduct was forgotten, and all were laugh- 
ing heartily at the strange peculiarities of this gifted young 
man. Of course, this would not have been so if they had not 
also honored Ludwig as the favorite of the prince and prin- 
cess. Those who envied him, called this immense good fortune : 
to wise friends, like Van Swieten, it caused much anxiety. 
This position, certainly, could not endure for life, and then 
what would all this running his head against the wall lead to ? 
Van Swieten did not fail to give advice and warning, but Lud- 
wig was already so spoiled that they were unregarded, and so 


121 


A Biographical Romance. 

the old papa was satisfied if this heaven-stormer only came to 
his musical soirees* 

Beethoven was, however, uncommonly industrious. He 
visited Haydn, Albrechtsberger, Salieri, and Schenck for the 
sake of perfection in thorough bass and the study of theory. 
Fathers Kraft and Linke taught him the mechanism of the violon- 
cello, Punto that of the horn, and the elder Friedlowsky that of 
the clarionet. But the old character appeared here also. All 
these celebrities esteemed Beethoven highly, but all agreed in 
this, it would be extremely difficult to get along with him. It 
was impossible that dry rules should interest the strong ambi- 
tious enthusiast, and there arose in him a perpetual repugnance 
to them. But can genius tread in the path of ordinary talent ? 
Were not the rules of art in the child Mozart before they were 
taught to him, and was it not true that only the slightest 
suggestion was needed to arouse in the soul a consciousness of 
what was in it by nature ? 

With Beethoven, it was the same, although with him,, the 
complete blossom unfolded later; the perfect fullness of his 
knowledge and power did not come to consciousness until riper 
years. Short as was their stay in Vienna, the two Kügelgens 
were to learn many of his characteristics. 

As a portrait painter, Gerhard was especially interested in 
one of his friend’s peculiarities. When, absorbed in deep 
thought, Beethoven forgot himself, or gave himself up with the 
full power of his soul to listen to fine music, his intelligent 
face became fixed as marble, and nothing but the lightning 
flash of his eye betrayed the emotion within. If he attended a 
classic opera, he sat from beginning to end silent and immov- 
able as a statue, and this was the most striking proof of his 
appreciation. If the music of an opera or a concert did not 
please him, he immediately rose and ran out, without saying a 
word.! 

This had happened today at a concert which he had attended 
with Gerhard and Karl Kiigelgen, as the man who gave the 
concert, a violinist highly recommended in all the papers, had 
begged him earnestly to go. As soon as the first performance 


♦Schindler, p. 28. 

t Alexander Oulibicheff : Beethoven, Les Critiques et les Glossateurs, p. 60. 
Ignaz; Studies of Beethoven. 


122 


Beethoven : 


was over, Beethoven sprang up suddenly, pressed his hat on his 
head in the middle of the hall, and ran out as if he were 
pursued by fire, leaving his two friends sitting as usual. 

An involuntary smile stole over all the faces, and the verdict 
upon the unfortunate musician was passed. 

The friends also looked at each other smiling, but knowing 
that they should find Ludwig at the house of the old papa, 
where they also had been introduced, they made their way there 
as soon as the first part of the concert was finished. 

There sat the heaven-stormer, playing Bach’s fugues. He 
had not exchanged a word with Van Swieten since he rushed 
into the room. His hat was still on his head as he had pressed 
it on in his anger. When the two friends came in, he looked 
at them, but went on playing till he had finished the fugue. 
Then he rose, bowed to those present, and took off his hat. 

“Is the race-course closed?” he asked, curtly. 

“What, the race-course?” repeated Gerhard, astonished. 

“Yes,” said Beethoven, “what the race horse is among 
quadrupeds that this virtuoso is among bipeds. He runs for 
a hundred times over the same beaten path, always making the 
same turns, disregarding the same hindrances, and usually stum- 
bling over the same ditches. But I like the racers better 
than the virtuosos. You can get out of the way of the first, 
but not of the last, if you live in the most remote abodes of 
men.” 

Papa Swieten and the friends laughed, but Ludwig went on 
grumbling furiously. 

“Well, is it not so?” he went on, angrily. Can an honor- 
able man protect himself from such creatures? The many- 
colored bills hang in all the streets, throwing at your head, as it 
were, the name of the immortal genius in letters as large as 
life, and they are joined together in such an unbroken row 
that one is afraid they are running after him, for at every glance, 
right or left, he finds the same ghosts again. And not till they 

seek one out By Orpheus ! May the thinly-scattered, true 

disciples of art who, with consecrated hands, strew over our poor 
miserable existence the pure pearls of musical enjoyment par- 
don me, but I ask you, friends, what is more intolerable than 
this type of travelling virtuoso, especially those who play their 
own compositions?” 


123 


A Biographical Romance. 

“Yes, yes,” said the ‘old papa,’ “their arrogance is usually 
unbearable, and their work, for the most part, pitiable.” 

“A vanity unbearable in itself,” Beethoven went on gruffly, 
“ can be indulged for the sake of the perfect execution of a 
master-piece, and the spirits of the great masters who are called 
up can excuse the most elaborate exercises of body and arms.” 

“Especially,” interrupted Van Swieten, “if, as I do, one 
takes the precaution to close his eyes at the climax of such 
convulsive experiments.” 

“Very well,” continued Beethoven, “but his own composi- 
tion! Oh, Heavens, now his soul is full of fire! yes, and the 

devil, too. Opus 11,999! and endless ! endless ! ” And 

he held his head in both hands, and ran back and forth as if in 
despair. 

“Be calm, be calm,” Van Swieten said, smiling. 

“Let him be calm who can,” cried Beethoven. “I foresee 
what is to come in the future. This virtuosoship will grow 
over the heads of us all, especially here in Vienna.” 

Beethoven’s zeal had now become such a mingling of tragedy 
and comedy that all were compelled to laugh ; even he himself, 
sitting down and drumming wildly upon the piano with the back 
of his hand, began to laugh scornfully, so that the walls shook.* 

“ Oh,” he cried, “ we laugh ; we ought to weep, for I tell you 
this virtuosoship is a poison for the noble Musica, of which she 
will die.” 

“ Dear friend,” said Papa Van Swieten, “ you look, as usual, 
too much on the dark side.” 

“No, no, no,” cried Beethoven, jumping up; and the old 
storm began to rage again in the room. “ No, I do not. It 
will be far worse.” 

“Heaven forbid that you should be right,” said the old 
gentleman. 

“ It will yet come to this,” continued Beethoven, eagerly, 
“that one becomes a genius en bloc or d forfait .” 

“I should like to know how this could be,” said Gerhard. 

“Why,” cried Beethoven, “we can surely form conclusions 
with regard to the future from what we are experiencing here 
in Vienna. How is it with this torturer? He has been in Paris 


* Alexander Oulibicheff : Beethoven, Sea Critiques et ses Glossateurs , p. 60. 


124 


Beethoven : 


or St. Petersburg, or Calcutta, whichever it was. Then it flew 
like a lark through all the papers, He is coming ! he is coming ! 
He will delight you, the celebrated Labowsky. Then we read 
about diamond pins and gold snuff-boxes, which had been laid 
at his feet as the rewards of separate potentates, and now, here, 
bills, programmes, trumpets, and timbrels. Good Heavens! 
What trash it was ! I will wager that he gave at the end a 
thundering da capo / bravo ! bravo ! equally divided into three 
strains, major and minor, — stamping and clapping, of course, 
all paid for.” 

Beethoven threw himself down at the piano again, and 
drummed as before a few tunes on several keys with the back 
of his hand, then he suddenly struck full, magnificent chords, 
and turned into a theme of Handel’s. 

“ Good Heavens! ” he cried, “that is music indeed. Those 
are creations which bear the stamp of eternal bloom. There 
is wealth of ideas, there is knowledge ; there is art, and yet 
nature also. How extremely modest those men were ? Handel, 

Bach, Mozart, and ’’now a discord sounded, but he changed 

it with wonderful quickness, and went on improvising in a mag- 
nificent way upon the original theme. 

When Beethoven rose from the instrument he had forgotten 
all his anger. A cheerful contentment lay upon his face, and 
he had not been so good-natured and merry for a long while as 
at the little impromptu supper which the ‘old papa’ now provided. 
They were the last hours which he was to pass with Gerhard 
and Karl during this visit to Vienna, for the next day was 
appointed for the departure of the two artists to Munich, and 
from there Gerhard was to go to Biga and St. Petersburg, 
where orders from the emperor awaited him. 

They thought once more of their youth, of the Breunings’ 
house, of the memorable journey to Mergentheim, of Jeanette 
aud Eleonore; and the glasses clinked loudly and harmoniously 
to the memory of those happy days, and of those dear people. 

It was late at night when the friends separated, taking leave 
of each other for a long time, — perhaps forever. 


A Biographical Romance. 


125 


THE APPARITION. 

A fortnight had passed since the visit of his friends, when 
the master, enticed by the glorious weather of the latter part of 
summer, started on a long walk. He was in very good humor, 
for he had been taking in the morning a review of everything 
good which he had accomplished in Vienna, and he could truly 
say to himself that youthful deeds had followed his youthful 
dreams. 

Beethoven’s name was already more celebrated than any 
other, and among his creations were many as master-pieces, — for 
instance, the three sonatas dedicated to Haydn, a few quartettes 
for stringed instruments, two concert pieces for the piano, a 
grand septette, fourteen glorious sonatas, and the plan of a sym- 
phony. And how much he had done for his own culture ! He 
felt himself enriched in mind, in knowledge, and in creative 
power. 

Could this consciousness fail to reward the ambitious, vigor- 
ous man with a healthy cheerfulness? Ludwig Van Beethoven 
felt happy in God’s free and glorious nature. Though every 
day life weighed upon him with the pressure of the Alps, today 
he was unspeakably free and light-hearted. The thought of 
what he had done in the domain of art, and of what he still felt 
reposing within him, was uplifting to him. His spirit breathed 
the mountain air of his home, and, like a second Moses, he looked 
from Horeb’s height into the promised land of undying fame. 
But he was again today to prove a truth whose worth he had 
already felt a thousand times, namely, that music is a higher 
language than words, and that, therefore, her domain begins 
where, in exalted moods, words seem too weak, and we despair 
of being able, through them, to express the delicate shades of 
feeling. 

Ludwig was forced to sing to express his satisfaction, and when 
the song died away his mind worked on at a new musical idea 
which the morning hours had born within him. It was the idea 
of a glorious march, awakened by the happy progress of all 
things in God’s free nature. 

He had come far away from home when the mid-day bell 
sounded in a neighboring village. The gnawings of hunger,] 


126 


Beethoven : 


after his long walk, also reminded him of the time. He there- 
fore turned into a pleasant country tavern, ordered the table to 
be brought into the garden in front of the house, and did all honor 
to the frugal meal when it was served by the neat little hostess. 
He had just finished eating when a poor woman came up to him 
with a bowed-down and humble mien, and at her side a mourn- 
ful-looking man, miserably dressed. 

“May your grace have pity,” said the woman; “he is my 
only son, and he is deaf and dumb.” 

The deaf-mute’s attention being called by a movement of his 
mother’s hand, he stared at the master, and his sad, unmeaning 
glance betrayed the desolation which was spread like a shroud 
over his soul for his whole life-time. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven shuddered involuntarily. He thought 
of the fearful fate of being able to hear nothing; to be forever 
silent seemed to him less horrible, but to hear nothing, — no 
tone from the warbling lark, no sound of the winged world, no 
joyous song, no music, — the thought was to him, the musician, 
the man of tones, the creator of such wonderfully-glorious har- 
monies, enough to drive him to despair. 

Horrible curse of Heaven ! he thought, and he put his hand 
into his pocket for alms, — but suddenly a beautiful thought 
thrilled him. 

“ Can you not, out of the gift with which God has blessed 
you, cast into the poor, barren life of this unfortunate man a 
larger share of sunshine?” he said to himself, and he formed 
a resolve no less beautiful than original. 

The mother and son sat down on a bench a little way off, 
where Beethoven sent them something to eat and drink. Then 
he ordered his table to be cleared, drew a little, well-stopped 
ink-bottle, which he always carried with him, out of one pocket, 
a sheet of note-paper out of the other, and took his seat at once. 

“Come hither, ye ideas to which this glorious morning has 
given birth,” he cried; “ye shall march up to me for a joyful 
sacrifice to love and humanity.” 

And he began to compose. They were great scratches which 
he put upon the paper, often nothing but hooks and numbers; 
but the scratches, the hooks, and the numbers pealed in the ears 
of the master, and soon a magnificent march lay upon the paper. 
Beethoven read it through, changed it here, improved it a little 


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127 


more there; then he cried at last, “ Now it will be right.” Say- 
ing this, he wrote in huge letters, scarcely legible to other 
people, “Ludwig Van Beethoven,” and under his name: — 

“ To the Adjutanterl Haslinger, in Steiner’s musical publish- 
ing house, Vienna.* For the delivery of this march six ducats 
must be paid to the bearer.” L. V. B. 

When he had done this he took up from the ground a hand- 
ful of sand, threw it upon the letter, wiped off the sand again 
with a stroke of his fingers, and beckoned to the woman with 
the deaf-mute. 

Holding out the paper to the latter, he said to the woman, 
“Are you acquainted in Vienna? Bo you know Steiner’s 
musical house?” 

“No, my lord.” 

“Can you remember the name?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“ Then go into the city and ask the way to Steiner’s musical 
house, and when you have found it, deliver The paper. You 
will then receive six ducats, which are for your son.” 

“What? How? How much ?” asked the woman, half mis- 
trusting. 

“ Six ducats,” said Beethoven, smiling. 

But the thing seemed still incredible to the woman. She 
therefore looked seriously at the sheet with the scratches, points, 
strokes, and hooks, and then at the man who had given it to her. 

“What is it?” asked Beethoven. 

But the old woman still held the sheet before her incredu- 


lously, and said : — 

“ Six ducats for that thing there ? ” 

“Yes,” said Beethoven, with joyous pride, “and now make 
haste and go and get your money.” 

“ My lord is making fun of us, is he not?” 

“No, good woman,” said Beethoven, with gentle earnestness, 
“only a rogue could play jokes upon the unfortunate. Go and 
get your money.” 

What quiet happiness came into his heart when they had both 
gone away. The woman was not yet quite firmly convinced 


»Tobias Haslinger, a dear friend of Beethoven’s, who always called him 
his Adjutanterl, was one of the owners in Steiner’s great musical house, 
which at that time published nearly all of Beethoven’s works. 


128 


Beethoven : 


that what she had received would fulfill its great promise, but 
Beethoven knew that it would, and he was thinking of the 
astonishment and delight of the unfortunate ones, over whose 
painful and anxious existence a glimmer of happiness never 
before dreamed of would be thus shed for a long time. He was 
full of happiness. Benevolence is the highest and purest joy of 
the human heart. A glorious afternoon and evening followed 
the beautiful morning. Beethoven was thinking of the sym- 
phony which he had begun, and many a time he stopped and 
drew a scrap of paper from his pocket, and noted down more 
beautiful musical thoughts. But the more this son of the muses 
lost himself in the Elysian fields of his art the more the con- 
sciousness of his bodily existence and his realistic surroundings 
vanished. He was soon so lifted above the world that he went 
on in God’s name, without even once thinking whither the way 
was leading or what time it was. Again he would pause and 
make notes. At last he sat down on a great stone and became 
engrossed with writing till it was night; but even this the 
inspired man did not notice, as the moon, which had risen early, 
gave him light for his work. 

At last ! at last ! the work was completed. Beethoven sprang 
up with a cry of joy, but he could not trust his senses when he 
observed that it was night, and found himself close to the edge 
of a wood. It was some time before he came to himself enough 
to know how he had come here. Good advice would now have 
been precious. Where was he ? In what direction lay Vienna ? 
So far as he could see in the moonlight, he beheld on the one 
side only hills and forests, on the other only meadows. Not a 
farm, not a village, least of all a single trace of the city. And 
now his ill fortune would have it that clouds in thick masses 
were piled above the moon, and thus the last ray of hope was 
extinguished. 

What was to be done ? The night was quite mild, and the 
road he was on must lead to some inhabited places, whether he 
went forward or backward. Deciding quickly, he turned around 
and stepped boldly forward, although he was very tired ; but no 
farm or village would come, not even one human soul was to 
be seen, nor one little light glimmered through the darkness. 

Thus hour after hour passed away. Beethoven almost 
fainted with fatigue, and was just thinking, in all seriousness, 


A Biographical Romance . 


129 


that he would he obliged to spend the night in the open air, 
when the clouds parted, and, at not a very great distance, a 
pretty country house became visible in the moonlight. 

“ God be praised! ” cried Beethoven. “ Possibly I can find 
a shelter here.” 

But the nearer he came to the house the more his hopes van- 
ished, for not a ray of light stole from a single window, and, 
besides, the garden surrounding the palatial house was enclosed 
by another wall. But necessity knows no la w. Ludwig’s situa- 
tion at this moment was so extremely unpleasant that he was 
firmly resolved to try everything. If worst came to worst, the 
veranda of the house, or any little arbor or summer-house in the 
garden, would offer a better place to pass the night than the 
open field. His first thought, then, was to go around the gar- 
den wall to find some entrance. Fortunately, he did not have 
to look long. A great heap of stone and rubbish lying near 
the wall made it easy to climb, while the trellis on the other side 
made it easy to get down. In a few minutes Ludwig found him- 
self inside the garden. 

He now went quickly up to the house. It was locked ; nor 
was there any sign of a bell, and he must knock and make a 
noise. What if, in case the house were inhabited, the noise 
should be misunderstood, and they should take him for a thief ? 

“No,” said Ludwig, but at this moment his eye fell upon a 
little summer-house opposite, built of moss and stone, which 
looked like a sort of hermitage. In his situation, no better 
quarters could be desired for the night. He therefore went 
quickly up to it, and was not a little pleased to find a beautiful, 
mossy seat. What delighted him still more was a gray cloth, 
which was spread over the round, stone table, and which his 
inventive mind at once fixed upon as an excellent covering for 
the night, in case it should be cool. So he wrapped himself in 
it, lay down upon the bench, and prepared to go to sleep. 

The great clock above the door of the house had just struck 
midnight. Ludwig counted the strokes in amazement. Then 
he closed his eyes, and sleep soon fell upon the weary one. But 
it was not a refreshing sleep. Beethoven was over-tired, and 
the mossy seat was, after all, not a bed. Half awake, half 
dreaming, he turned now this way, now that, when, suddenly, 
sounds fell upon his ear. 

9 


130 


Beethoven : 


He listened and started with surprise. It was a song com- 
posed by him, sung by a well-known voice, and the tone 
certainly came from the country house opposite. 

But what ! — did he see rightly ? The doors leading to the 
balcony opened, and a form, like a ghastly apparition, came out 
silently and solemnly. She hovered rather than moved. A 
white garment yeiled her delicate limbs, light curls surrounded 
her pale, lovely face, which, half uplifted, was turned towards 
the moon, standing full and radiant in a cloudless sky. 

Beethoven recognized her at once. It was the Countess 
Eugenie. She was a pupil and worshiper of Beethoven, 
whose mesmeric influence upon her the family physician had 
declared to be injurious, and Beethoven, with his usual impul- 
siveness, had angrily resented the accusation. Then Dr. Czerny 
was right, and he had been guilty of a great wrong against him 
and the count’s family. But the thought only flashed upon 
him like lightning, for now the form began to sing again. How 
full of soul the tones were. They laid hold upon the master’s 
heart with special power, for it was not very long ago that he 
had composed the song for his dear, enthusiastic pupil. Hark ! 
hark ! she sang it as if out of the master’s soul ; as if she were 
one with him in thought and feeling. 

Beethoven sprang up with delight; he had become con- 
sciously alive in these tones, and yet they were permeated by a 
strange melancholy. Involuntarily he raised his hand to his 
heart, for it seemed as if some evil power had robbed him of 
his inmost self. His passionate nature carried him away. In a 
few minutes he stood under the balcony and cried, “ Eugenie ! ” 

The delicate form shuddered, the tones died away, she stood 
silent and motionless, her child-like face turned, with closed 
eyei, toward the moon. 

Beethoven had already repented of his thoughtless cry, due 
only to the masterly execution of his composition. Pie was 
about to withdraw softly when a whispered, almost inaudible, 
“ Master ! ” struck upon his ear. 

He looked up. Yes, it was she. But she still waited, 
motionless and with closed eyes, in the same position as before. 
Beethoven felt as if transfixed to the ground. 

“Master!” whispered the girl again. “Why did you not 
come until today ? It has been icy cold about me. Now I 


A Biographical Romance. 


131 


am comfortable, so comfortable, so happy, for you are here. 
You, my great, glorious teacher, my adored Master. Ah!” 
she went on, after a little pause, “ they did not tell you where 
I was ; and yet I was always with you, though they have forbid- 
den me to play your compositions, or to sing your songs. But I 
cannot do otherwise. I must do it. I breathe,! live, only in you.” 

She was silent. An involuntary shudder came over Beet- 
hoven. He had always laughed at the disputes excited by 
Mesmer, which were then dividing the medical and esthetic 
world, and ridiculed animal magnetism and somnambulism as the 
wildest extravagance. Now an example of this side of life 
stood before him, and he could not deny that it took hold of him. 
It seemed as if a voice from the grave were speaking to him. 

“Do not fear,” the girl went on, and, in spite of the toneless- 
ness with which she spoke, there was a child-like, plaintive 
sound in her voice. “I cannot stay with you long, but come 
again, that I may find peace, and when I have vanished into 
shadow,” she continued, “be careful — — I see two serpents in 
your heart, which you are caressing and cherishing, and they are 
stinging your heart to its centre.” 

She ceased, and a visible shudder thrilled her. 

“ Poor Master ! ” she said, then, “ A black veil is falling upon 
you, — 'Covers you! Alas! I cannot lift it. No one can lift it.” 

“But what? ” was whispered again, above. “ Comfort your- 
self. You will shine through it. Ah, what splendor ! You 
rise like a sun, and the world lies at your feet. How pleased 
I am ! I am unspeakably happy.” 

At this instant the moon disappeared behind the masses of 
clouds. 

“Farewell,” was whispered again, and slowly, as she had 
come, the form disappeared. 


CAST NOT PEARLS BEFORE SWINE. 

The consequences of the night were very unpleasant for 
Beethoven, physically ; the moral effects were of a very different 
nature. His honesty told him he had injured Dr. Czerny 


132 


Beethoven : 


shamefully, Count Browne and his excellent wife almost 
unpardonably, by his distrust and violent behavior. With all 
Beethoven’s sensitiveness and irritability he had this beautiful 
trait, that when he had grown calm and seen his fault he was 
not ashamed to recognize it, or to seek reconciliation with the 
person offended. Then he begged pardon even more humbly 
than his fault demanded. 

So it was now. Two letters, one to the physician and one 
to the count, begged them for forgiveness, since he had come 
to a perception of his wrong. How this had been revealed to 
him remained his secret, but he begged so honorably for par- 
don, blamed himself so severely, and held out his hand in so 
conciliatory a manner, that they were forced to accept it. 

The other impressions of this night were not swiftly effaced. 
What Beethoven had experienced bound him to Countess 
Eugenie with a fatherly affection, and yet from that time there 
was, to him, something unnatural about her. Her mysterious, 
prophetic glances oppressed him, though, on the other hand, 
they uplifted him powerfully. 

In fact, between Beethoven’s soul and that of this child, in 
the spring-time of youth, a rapport had arisen, the foundation of 
which with him was simply interest in a person who had given 
herself up to art so early and with such unusual devotion. A 
slight vanity, too, had no insignificant effect, as Countess Eugenie 
knew only Beethoven’s music, and cared to know no other. 
Her enthusiasm for the thing itself was confused with an uncon- 
scious enthusiasm for the bearer of it, from which arose that 
condition of the nerves which might be' dangerous in its conse- 
quences. Therefore, Hr. Czerny had sent the mother and 
daughter into the country. The anxious father had not chosen 
their own estate for their residence, but the country house of a 
friend which happened to be unoccupied. Eugenie was to 
be removed for a time from music and the music-teacher, and 
Beethoven should find no opportunity to nourish this two-fold 
affection even unconsciously to himself. 

Who could help it if the countess, not being able to endure 
the country, often went back to the city for a few days and 
nights ? Who could help it if Babette soon became accustomed 
to the nightly attacks, which were so frightful at first, and now 
slept so soundly in the next room for the most part that she 


A Biographical Romance. 


133 


heard nothing of them ? Who could help it that, on the moon- 
light night which produced so strange an effect upon the sufferer, 
Ludwig should, by a strange concatenation of circumstances, be 
led so near to the fair sleeper ? 

Yet it almost seemed as if this ethereal relation was to 
soar past them both, the gigantic spirit and the child just 
ripening into life, like some short, wonderful dream. A fate 
similar to Beethoven’s befell Eugenie. A severe cold pros- 
trated her ; but, while the vigorous man soon recovered, a dan- 
gerous disease had confined the delicate girl for many weeks to 
the bed of sickness. No one suspected whence the disease 
came, but Ludwig could only too well imagine, and now, in his 
exaggerated conscientiousness, reproached himself constantly for 
it. He thought that he, with his music and his instruction, was 
guilty of all, and actually fell, in consequence, into grief and 
despair. Now the sharp edges of his character reappeared. 
The follies and weaknesses of men certainly gave him cause 
enough. 

This very day the world was to have a proof of it. Beet- 
hoven had obtained for a fine young musician, who was also 
his scholar, an engagement as pianist at Count Browne’s, since 
he himself, for conscientious reasons and the request of 
Eugenie’s father and physician, seldom played there. 

As Count Browne kept open house, and a company assem- 
bled in the parlors every evening, the young pianist was fre- 
quently compelled to play Beethoven’s pieces, partly from notes 
and partly from memory. Today, tired of playing from memory, 
he played at last, without any special thought, a march of his 
own composition, just as it came into his head. Of course, all 
of Beethoven’s worshipers present thought that tills march also 
was by their idol. Indeed, the old Countess of Pallhorst, who 
almost killed Beethoven with her enthusiasm, fell into such 
extreme rapture over this supposed new composition of her favor- 
ite that the waggish artist left her to her belief. 

But what a terror for him when Beethoven entered at the 
same moment. The countess rushed up to the master, and 
spoke to him with the most ardent delight of the extremely 
brilliant march which his magic power had produced, — a mas- 
ter-piece such as only a Beethoven could create. 

The master, to whom, in his sadness, anything was now 


134 


Beethoven : 


doubly irritating, looKcd first at the countess then at his scholar 
with angry glances till the latter, trembling with anxiety, whis- 
pered to him that, as Beethoven could not endure the countess, 
he had permitted himself to play a joke upon her, so far as to 
leave her to the opinion that the march was Beethoven’s. 

Fortunately for the young man, the master, out of anger at 
the countess, took the matter quietly, but he now wished to hear 
the march, which came off much worse a second time under 
such painful circumstances. Nevertheless, they loaded Beet- 
hoven with praises. Then the storm in the master broke out 
all at once, and, in the midst of a convulsive, scornful laugh, 
he cried : — 

“ That is what these people are. These are the great con- 
noisseurs who wish to criticise all music so exactly and so sharply. 
Only give them the name of their favorite, that is all they 
want.”* 

A general stillness followed. The old Countess Pallhorst 
had grown pale beneath her rouge, and now, glancing angrily 
at her son, went into the next room. Fortunately the ‘old 
papa’ came up in the meantime, tapped Beethoven on the 
shoulder, with a smile, and said, “All true, but then very rude.” 

But this time Beethoven was scarcely approachable, even by 
Van Swieten, and the wise old man had to go to work very 
diplomatically to soften the irritated lion again. But no one 
understood this better than the ‘ old papa ’ himself. He turned 
the conversation upon correct artistic criticism, from this to art 
itself, from art to the Italian musicians, and here he contrived 
so skillfully a little dispute with Beethoven upon Palestrina’s 
‘Missa Papae Marcelli” that, in order to prove that he was 
right in his assertions, Beethoven sat down to the piano unin 
vited, and played a part of the piece referred to. 

This time Van Swieten had won the game. He also led him 
from one thing to another till he really brought him to the 
march which he had composed. All those about him begged, as 
a sort of act of reconciliation, that Beethoven would play a few 
of these to them. He yielded, though grumbling moodily, 
called the young pianist, and the four-handed playing began. 

But the young Count Pallhorst and his mother had not for* 


* Beethoven’s own words. 


A Biographical Romance. 


135 


gotten the previous offense. While the masters were playing, 
the young count was talking so loudly with his mother in the 
door of the next room that Beethoven, after several attempts 
to produce silence were unsuccessful, suddenly, in the midst 
of the playing, pulled his companion’s hand away from the 
piano, and, jumping up himself, cried aloud, “I will not play 
before such swine.”* 

The ‘old papa,’ who, with his usual presence of mind, had 
reviewed the situation, was the first to raise a laugh to save his 
friend’s reputation, and to preserve general good humor, thus 
giving to an affair which might have been very unpleasant 
the most comical turn possible. 

The old Countess Pallhorst and her son left the palace at 
once after they had both cast fatal, annihilating glances at the 
master. 

All efforts to bring Beethoven to the piano again were in 
vain. He looked angrily around him, and it was well that the 
Count and Countess Browne were not in the music-room just 
now but in the larger drawing-room. Even Van Swieten 
tried in vain to soften his irritated friend. 

“Let me alone, Papa,” he said angrily, “you do not know 
what is going on w r ithin me. I will not suffer the majesty of 
art to be insulted, least of all by blockheads.” 

He went off with great strides to one of the side rooms. But 
Beethoven found no rest here. As he sat down in a dark cor- 
ner, the thought came over him of his sick favorite, who now, 
that they had brought her back to the city, was living under the 
same roof with him, and whom still he could not see. Poor 
Eugenie was suffering for him and by his means. 

Beethoven sat there more than an hour, far from the company, 
with his thoughts turned in upon himself. Suddenly he sprang 
up, left the room secretly, and crept toward the countess’ room, 
so well known to him. How many lessons he had given there ! 
Babette, who met him in the ante-room, was not a little fright- 
ened, and at first would not permit him to enter the sick-room. 
But what chamber-maid will not waver in her decision at sight 
of a ducat. A few minutes later, and Beethoven stood in 
Eugenie’s room. 


* Beethoven’s own words. 


136 


Beethoven : 


There she lay with closed eyes, in her soft, rich bed. Her 
lovely face was not pale, as on that eventful night, hut flushed 
with a fever-glow. Sleep held her in his grasp now as before : 
not that dead, strange sleep, in which she still kept her relation 
to the world, but restless, pervaded by wild and confused 
dreams. 

Tears stole into the eyes of Beethoven, that strong man who 
trod under foot the world and all its conventionalities. He 
gently drew up a chair, sat down by the dear child’s bed, took 
one of her feverish hands, and held it in his in silence. 

At the first touch a slight shudder had come over Beethoven, 
— from that time her fantastic dreams continued, but apparently 
diminishing more and more till the fever actually yielded ; at 
last a quiet sleep took its place, and she smiled sweetly as an 
angel. 


FOUR ARTISTIC SOULS. 

The improvement in Eugenie’s condition was temporary. The 
fever had vanished, and the night attacks came no more, with 
the exception of the soft, scarcely-audible singing of Beethoven’s 
songs. But the lovely child grew strikingly thinner and palei 
until she was almost transparent. 

As Eugenie lay there in her cloud-like night-dress, the fail 
curls about her perfectly-chiseled face, with an indescribable gen- 
tleness in her expression, with her dreamy eyes looking into the 
distance, with her little, tired head upon the pillows, veiled by 
the transparent curtains which reached to the ceiling, a poetic 
eye might well have imagined that Titania, Oberon’s ethereal 
spouse, had embedded herself here among the lilies and May- 
bells. 

Eugenie’s existence was, in fact, almost wholly spiritual, for 
what she took of food and drink amounted to very little. Sleep 
gave way more and more to a prolonged, dreamy condition, and 
she seemed to have really forgotten how to speak. No com- 
plaints escaped her lips any more, but she often indicated in 
mysterious words that she saw something like a distant black 


A Biographical Romance. 


137 


cloud. Then she seemed filled with anguish, and stretched her 
arms out before her, as if she would prevent the cloud from rest- 
ing upon her with its deadly weight. But what seemed most 
striking was her frequent desire to see her music-teacher ; and 
as Dr. Czerny soon became aware of the change, that the mas- 
ter’s presence now had a soothing effect upon the sufferer, the 
afflicted father begged his friend for frequent visits. 

Beethoven obeyed willingly, for, although each one of the 
visits touched him deeply, there was something peculiarly uplift- 
ing, soothing, even delightful, in spite of all that was painful, 
in the meeting with this remarkable child. 

Today Beethoven entered the sick-room at the appointed 
horn*. The green, silk curtains were drawn, and permitted only 
a little of the light of day to enter, so that a dim twilight reigned 
in the quiet room. Even the steps of people walking sounded 
through the soft, rich carpet on the floor of the room, which the 
loving care of the parents had transformed into a temple of the 
purest taste. But if the gentle step of the master had not been 
heard, for though not usually ethereal, here he was all atten- 
tion ; if Babette had only bowed silently, Countess Eugenie, 
who lay there with her eyes closed, knew at once who had 
entered. Even before the eye-lids were slowly raised a smile 
passed over her face as she held out her little, white, transpar- 
ent hand pleasantly toward him. Beethoven took it and pressed 
it gently ; then he sat down again and held it in his hand in 
silence. Not a word passed the lips of either. Beethoven 
looked at Eugenie like a loving father looking upon his dear, 
sick child. The countess looked at the distinguished master, 
who sat by her bed and held her hand, with rapturous delight. 

Yet this silent conversation between the two was a lively one. 
They were both thinking of art, Eugenie admiring it in the 
great master, and feeling it near because embodied in him ; 
the latter sadly watching a creature fade away, truly absorbed 
in art, and perishing in consequence of her too great enthusiasm 
for it. 

Thus Beethoven, the man who, out in the world, was so rough 
and careless, threatening to storm Heaven, like a Titan, sat fre- 
quently with winning gentleness by the child’s bed. When he 
had been there half an hour he often went to the piano, which 
always stood in the next room, and improvised a while, and his 


138 


Beethoven : 


playing was so delicate, so whispered, that the stillness around, 
and the sensitive ear of the sufferer, were necessary to hear it. 

This was the case today when, suddenly, a cry of pain 
sounded from the sick-bed. 

“ The cloud ! the cloud ! ” 

Horrified, Beethoven sprang up and hurried to Eugenie. 
Babette had also hastened toward her. There lay the countess, 
with her hands stretched out before her, as if in self-defence, 
her eyes staring, and apparently tormented by some fearful 
anguish. 

“The cloud! the black cloud!” she cried, while the thick 
drops of cold sweat came out on her high, white forehead. “It 
oppresses me; and you, you, Master, misfortune threatens you! 
Beware ! beware ! ” She could utter no more. Her arm sank 
down, exhausted; her eyes dropped, wearily. Eugenie made a 
sign to Beethoven and Babette to go away. 

Beethoven was proving at this time, more than ever, that he 
was no ordinary man. In these hours which he spent at Euge- 
nie’s bedside he was gentle as a child, with a devotion as true 
and warm as that of the noblest mother’s heart, and these hours, 
and this mysterious soul-life between him and the lovely child, 
constituted his happiness. Out of this unique intercourse grew 
a quiet joy which bore fruit in his increased exertion. Beet- 
hoven’s character gained immensely in depth, his efforts in con- 
secration. 

He shone now in the musical world at Vienna like a mag- 
nificent star. It was in Prince Lichnowsky’s circle that almost 
all of Beethoven’s works which were composed at this time 
were tried, and then performed in larger circles. Beethoven 
depended so much upon the prince’s cultivated taste and thor- 
ough musical knowledge that he gladly received advice from 
him with regard to this or that change in his compositions, — 
an indulgence which he granted so readily to no one else except 
the ‘ old papa.’ * 

What musical feasts these evenings were at Lichnowsky’s and 
Van Swieten’s! The glorious quartette already mentioned, 
— Schuppanzigh, first violin ; Sina, second violin ; Kraft and 
Linke, alternately violoncello, — which later, under the name of 


* Schindler, p. 38. 


139 


A Biographical Romance. 

the Rasdemosky Quartette, obtained a wide-spread and well- 
deserved celebrity. This quartette, never to exist again in the 
same way, was the glory of those evenings; and these four truly 
artistic souls inhaled the sublime spirit of Beethoven.* They 
were one in soul with the master, his true scholars and disciples. 

Thousands can leach how to place the fingers on the instru- 
ment, how to play difficult passages, but only one among them 
can add the intellectual spark. Not the management of the 
technicalities, but the spirit alone, is the truth and inner life 
and being of every art, and this spirit grew strong here in these 
four artistic souls, even in Beethoven himself, and gradually 
developed in that quartette to the fullest and finest perfection, 
and even remained in it after the master’s death. f 

As men and friends also these four men stood together, and 
here, too, Beethoven was their ideal, not for his external rude- 
ness, but for his purity of soul and true, German bravery of 
character. These men formed a kind of musical and esthetic 
union, the object of which was to develop not only their art 
but all the means which Providence had given them of making 
men useful. 

Beethoven himself drew up the simple statutes, which per- 
mitted a deep view into his inmost self, ' and were the fruit of 
his quiet life with Countess Eugenie. 

They were very simple, as follows : — 

1 

“Serve thy neighbor as thyself; and what ye would not that 
men should do to you do not so to them. 

2 

“ So use the lofty significance of thine art that thou shalt fol- 
low it from a pure and holy love to ennoble thyself and others, 
and to kindle in the hearts of all an enthusiasm for what is 
eternally great and beautiful. 

3 

“As a human being, forgive even thine enemies, and recom- 

* Schindler, p. 39. Marx; Ludwig Yan Beethoven, Part First, p. 38. 
t Schindler, p. 40. This Quartette Union, for whose musical purity Beet- 
hoven never ceased to care, was long considered the only school in which to 
become acquainted with Beethoven’s quartette music, — that new world so 
full of sublime pictures and revelations. 


140 


Beethoven : 


pense them only by benefits. This generous self-sacrifice mil 
afford thee the purest joy. Therefore, remember always that 
this is one of the finest victories which reason can gain over the 
natural impulses, and that a noble man forgets offences but 
never benefits. 

4 

“If thou devotedst thyself to the welfare of others, yet for- 
get not thine own perfection. Look often into thy heart, and 
examine its most secret recesses. Self-knowledge is the foun- 
dation not only of all wisdom but of all success. 

5 

“ Let pure, strict morals be ever thy companions. Let thy 
heart be simple, upright, true, and modest* like the heart of a 
child. Pride is man’s most dangerous enemy. It ensnares him 
by a deceptive confidence in his own strength. 

6 

“Look not backwards whence thou hast come; it would hin- 
der thy course ; but look toward the goal which thou deservest 
to gain, for the short time of thy life scarcely gives thee time to 
reach it. Deny thy self-love the dangerous nourishment of com- 
paring thyself with those who are behind thee ; rather spur thy- 
self on to glowing emulation when thou seest perfect models 
before thee.” 

Are not these simple rules of life the reflection of a sublime 
soul ? They were recognized as such by his friends, and prac- 
ticed out of reverence for the great master. 

Thus it was, in union with these four true artists, that Beet- 
hoven strove. It was through this very union, and through the 
quiet motive-power coming from the communion with Eugenie, 
and taking such hold upon his life, that his genius soared in its 
boldest flights. Deep feeling, reaching out in all directions, is 
the characteristic of Beethoven’s genius. 

It is the full heart, in him joyful, strong, which beats in 
enthusiastic response to everything great and beautiful. 

How this grand and many-sided emotion, experienced with 
the most vivid intensity, stirs the musical fancy to a like grand 
and soaring movement. Fuller and deeper harmonies arise; 
the powers and shades of tone become living in a way before 


A Biographical Romance. 


141 


unknown; orchestra and piano are exalted to become organs 
which can perfectly re-echo the excited soul. The whole wealth 
of the movements and combinations of tone of which music is 
capable seems to wish to reveal itself. 

And it will reveal itself. But a fearful fate must first take a 
deep hold upon the noblest of the sons of men. The cloud ! 
the black cloud ! The prophetic soul of a child had seen it 
with spiritual vision, and this child-like heart had ceased to beat. 
Ludwig Van Beethoven stands morose and silent at Eugenie’s 
grave. “The cloud! The cloud!” came on spirits’ voices, 
with dull and horrible sound, out of the closing grave like a pro- 
phetic cry, and an iron hand held above Beethoven’s head a 
heavy, heavy crown of thorns. 

Eugenie sleeps sweetly. 0 Master, Master, what has life in 
store for thee ? This loving, true heart has found rest and 
peace ; through what horrors has thine yet to struggle ! But he 
who fears the future has already lost life, and he who knows 
not pain has never dreamed of happiness. 


THE EVIL PBINCIPLE. 

If with the fading of a single year the midnight hour which 
engulfs it utters a solemn memento mori; if the thought that an 
insignificant period of our life has glided away fills us with deep 
solemnity, how much more powerfully must every thinking man 
be stirred by a farewell of a dying century ? Humanity stands 
then at a monstrous sepulchre ready to entomb a gigantic 
corpse, and about it throng the pale ghosts of all the numberless 
wishes and hopes which the dead age has given to mankind, 
and which, for the most part, an inexorable fate has crushed in its 
cold, marble hand and buried in the century’s tomb. But 
scarcely with the last stroke of midnight is the century buried 
than the new century rises like a youthful queen, adorned with 
the sparkling diadem of a new period, and men go with jubilees 
to meet her, and in her train fresh hopes come to the nations. 
But if it is always true that at the dawn of a new century such 


142 


Beethoven : 


thoughts stir the souls of men, it was certainly the case at the 
time of which we write, namely, at the end of the eighteenth 
and opening of the nineteenth century, both of which announced 
to the world in thunder tones the name of a single man, — a 
name which the nations either received with shouts or at which 
they trembled to the depths of their souls. This name was 
Napoleon Bonaparte. 

On the 23rd of August, 1779, after the siege of Aboukir, 
Napoleon returned from the memorable campaign in Egypt to 
France, where he was received with acclamations as the savior 
of the republic, and conducted in triumph to Paris. “ I left 
the republic victorious and powerful, I find her conquered and 
powerless,” were the words which he hurled in the face of the 
Director. For England, in alliance with Russia and the Porte, 
and together with Austria, had carried on the war so energetic- 
ally that the flag of the republic was again pressed back beyond 
the Rhine and driven out of Italy. In addition to this came 
civil war and rebellion. 

Then for France, and for all the hearts that beat for freedom 
and the rights of the people, a star of hope seemed to have 
arisen in Napoleon the republican. Public opinion called 
loudly for a change of government, and the new century was to 
bring it. The council of elders, full of confidence, entrusted 
Napoleon with the chief command of the troops. Scarcely had 
Bonaparte arrived at this dignity when, on the 9th of November 
(18th Brumaire), he annulled the power of the Director, and 
placed himself at the head of the three consuls who were pre- 
viously appointed. The fourth constitution of the republic was 
proclaimed Dec. 15 (22nd Frimaire), 1799, and Napoleon 
Bonaparte was chosen First Consul for ten years, with almost 
regal power. 

With this event of incalculable importance and influence the 
eighteenth century closed. Was it a wonder that the whole 
civilized world approached the new century with a suspense 
before unknown V Royalty and the whole party of royalists 
and legitimists trembled before Bonaparte as before Anti-Christ. 
He was hailed as the founder of a new age of freedom and 
national prosperity, not only by republican France but also by 
many noble men and women of other lands, who saw in him 
the prototype of a true republican. 


A Biographical Romance. 


143 


No one was more enthusiastic for him, no one hoped more 
ardently through him for the victorious success of a platonic 
republic, than Ludwig Van Beethoven. And in the beginning 
it seemed that he and France, and so many noble and wise men 
and women, had not been deceived. 

Wise men stood by the side of the First Consul. His keen 
eye had found them at once, and recognized them. His uncom- 
mon talent as a general put them immediately in the right 
place. Well, then, can it be maintained that the period of the 
consular rule — ■ the sunrise of the nineteenth century — was a 
most blessed period for the French people? A new book of 
law was composed, trade and commerce flourished once more, 
art and science found encouragement, agriculture and manu- 
factures received a new impulse, the emigrant list was closed, 
and there was a general promise of peace. 

Who knows what shape affairs might have taken in Europe ? 
Who knows in what very different direction Napoleon’s genius 
might have turned if England, Austria, the German empire, 
Russia, Naples, and the Porte had not sternly opposed every 
new order which showed, ever so remotely, a republican taint? 
Better peace with hell than with Napoleon was the watchword 
in the camp of the royalists and legitimists, and so all these 
kingdoms were armed for war with France. What more 
natural than that a man like Bonaparte should win by the 
sword the peace which was refused him in the way of kindness, 
and thus began again the thunder of battle, a mournful greet- 
ing for the nineteenth century. 

Like a second Hannibal, Bonaparte pressed on over the great 
St. Bernard into Italy, and restored the cis-alpine republic. On 
June 14, 1800, the bloody battle of Marengo decided the fate 
of Italy in favor of France. Remarkable, fearful day ! Already 
the French were beaten on both flanks, when, in the evening, 
supported by Desaix’s reserve, the raging conflict was renewed. 
Napoleon’s words, “ Children, you know that I am accustomed 
to sleep upon the battle-field,” led his hosts to victory after a 
struggle of thirteen hours ; a victory dearly enough bought by 
the death of Desaix and so many brave men. 

But now Bonaparte left the Italian army, giving the com- 
mand to Massena, and, terror to European cabinets, adorned 
with the laurels of Marengo, he hastened back to Paris. In 


144 


Beethoven: 


the tumult of victory the French received him, and here, in 
Paris, he dictated those humiliating laws to the ambassadors of 
foreign states. At length, on the 15th of July, 1800, a truce 
was concluded at Parsdorf. It cost the German empire its 
southwest district, which had to be given up to France, but the 
main point was that a treaty was projected towards which all 
the hopes of Germany immediately turned. It is easy, there- 
fore, to imagine the joy which the news of this truce spread 
everywhere. Even in Vienna, it was received with exultation, 
and everyone was sure that peace was to be concluded, while 
on the same day new orders to arms went out in secret from 
Vienna, and Archduke John was very quietly entrusted with 
the chief command. 

Notwithstanding this, the court and the whole population 
celebrated the reception of this joyful message, it being a glori- 
ous J uly day, by a drive in the Prater, as brilliant as the one 
on the first day of May usually is. No proclamation had been 
issued for this purpose. The idea sprang up of itself in their 
jubilant souls, and extended with the swiftness of lightning 
through the whole city, — yes, even to the court. Finding such 
response, it was carried out in most brilliant style, as if by 
agreement. 

But now we must know what the First of May means, and 
what a drive in the Prater is. The First of May is, for Vienna, 
a holiday unlike any other. On this day hundreds-of the finest 
equipages, and many thousands of men, hurry through the 
J ägerzeile to the Prater, to be present at the great spectacle 
of its dedication, and, if the weather is at all favorable, the 
spectacle is a magnificent and imposing one. It is well known 
that no city in the world has a pleasure resort so eminently 
characteristic as the Prater of Vienna. On spring days all the 
wealth and glitter of the Austrian nobility are displayed here 
in the most magnificent and extravagant manner. Until 
towards the end of the month of May this famous Prater drive 
continues, lasting from three o’clock in the afternoon into the 
night. Even in those days carriage after carriage, from the 
most showy imperial court equipage down to the simplest 
clumsy hired coach, drove now at a walk, and now on a trot, 
through the main paths of this glorious park. 

So it was today. On either side of this multitude, as they 


A Biographical Romance. 


145 


rode and walked along, were countless inns and coffee-houses, 
looking pleasantly out from the meadows and shrubbery of the 
country, around which the motley crowd pressed in undisturbed 
merriment. The Prater had never presented a picture more 
glorious than now, none combining a more fascinating and bril- 
liant wealth of color. The eye, directed toward the Prater 
proper, found it difficult to catch ever so hastily the separate 
pictures as they passed by. The magnificent horses, found at 
that time in such numbers and splendor only in Vienna, elegant, 
well-built coaches, inside of which the richest toilets were dis- 
played, followed each other by hundreds down on the left side 
and up on the right, separated in the centre by mounted 
gens d' armes. „ 

HoW strikingly showy, almost theatrical in their brilliancy, 
the toilets of those days were ! On the heads of all the ladies 
of rank and property were worn turbans, carefully wound and 
artistically embroidered, made mostly of white gauze, or of white 
and corn-colored crape with tinsel, and ornamented in front with 
a soft heron’s plume, turned from left to right, the so-called 
esprit. The Iphigenia was also worn, a veil richly ornamented 
with silver spangles, and surmounted by a wreath of roses or 
hyacinths. Turkish robes of corn-colored silk, embroidered 
with gold, and tunics of black crape with the same embroidery 
adorned the bodies of the fair ones, indicating the alliance with 
the Mussulman. The ends of the sleeves were trimmed 
with white lace, falling on the gloves, which reached to the 
elbow. Beautiful cashmere shawls, called shawls d' Egypt in 
consequence of Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign, were also worn, 
and ear-rings, necklaces, and aigrettes glistened with diamonds.* 
What dazzling magnificence. What life there was also when, 
amid shouts, the national games were played. From the groves 
and meadows, watered by the fresh Danube, which runs through 
the park, came confused sounds of unrestrained joy. More than 
a hundred inns were scarcely sufficient to supply the needs of 
this assembled multitude. Young and old, men and women, 
old men and children, high and low, sat happily together at the 


* A journal of the Theatre of Art and of Fashion of the year 1800 says : A 
high price is now paid for sweeping, because the ladies wear so much 
embroidery of gold and spangles on their veils, turbans, and dresses that 
the rooms and halls after parties are completely covered with such tinsel. 


lO 


146 


Beethoven : 


tables in the open air, while Italians strode slowly past them 
with the unceasing, monotonous cry, “ Salami, Salamini , 
Signori! ” The jugglers played their tricks, and musicians of 
all sorts displayed their skill or lack of it. 

Through this gay confusion two young men were just passing, 
of whom one was at most twenty-six years old, the other perhaps 
twenty-four. One could see at the first glance that they must be 
brothers; on the other hand their condition pecuniarily seemed to 
be quite different, the elder being very elegantly, the younger 
very poorly, dressed. The latter wore simply a gray suit; the 
former was dressed in the fashionable costume of the time, — a 
blue frock-coat, on whose immense revers seven brass buttons 
shone like stars of the first magnitudg ; the scarlet waistcoat 
was laced with a large, gold cord; from the short, black silk 
trowsers, laced near the knee with gold lacings, two little gold 
tassels hung down upon the black silk stockings; the shoes 
were ornamented with lacings of the same material, while the 
broad cocked hat and the cane with a head of painted porce- 
lain completed the whole. Perhaps one might have concluded 
from this showy dress, quite in the fashion of the time, that 
this was a young man of property and fine education, but even 
a hasty glance would have shown the keen observer that the 
manners of the young man were by no means indicative of 
culture. His proud air, his pinched up mouth, his condescend- 
ing glances, and the extreme height at which he carried his 
head bespoke rather the 'parvenu than the consciousness of 
inward worth, or the comfortable certainty of good position 
obtained by high birth. There was in his expression some- 
thing unusually repelling, although one could not tell what pro- 
duced the unpleasant effect, whether it was the pride so clearly 
expressed, the touch of coxcombry, or the false glance of the 
small, cunning eyes. 

The appearance of the younger man was much less disagree- 
able, chiefly because his exterior was simpler and more subdued, 
but the cunning in the eye he had in common with the other. 
No man would voluntarily have chosen for friends these two 
who now walked arm in arm through the lonesome by-paths 
of the park engaged in familiar conversation. There was too 
much of the Mephistophiles, especially in the elder, but the rela- 
tion between the two seemed therefore only the closer, as their 
conversation would have shown to any listener. 


A Biographical Romance. 


147 


“ But, my dearly-beloved brother Johann,” the one in fashion- 
able dress was just saying, “ now that I have given you this 
pleasure, and have introduced you into a brilliant Vienna life, 
you will certainly be so good as to grant me a few wise, serious 
words upon our situation, or rather upon yours.” 

“ With all my heart, dear Caspar,” said the younger, but the 
other interrupted him quickly, saying, with upturned nose and 
wrinkled brow, “ Don’t call me by that disagreeable, common 
name ; you know I could not bear it even at home, and mother 
always called me Karl.” 

“Yes, and when father called you Caspar, then we knew 
what was the matter, — his head was burning after his nightly 
revels, and our backs were the lightning-conductors of his 
anger.” 

“Don’t remind me of that time,” Karl said, still more gloom- 
ily; “ God be thanked, that is past; no one here can know any 
of these things.” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Johann, “you may well say, ‘God be 
thanked.’ You live in this glorious Vienna like a bird in hemp- 
seed. Through Ludwig’s intercession, you are cashier in the 
National Bank. You have a beautiful, fresh, young wife ” 

“Hush,” said Karl, at these words, and his brow grew still 
more clouded. “It is easy to see that you are a fearful novice 
in the world; never call a man happy on account of his wife.” 

“But, Karl, cried the younger brother, “your Betty is an 
angel.” 

“Be silent on that subject,” said the elder, so decidedly and 
imperatively that the younger brother obeyed at once, and only 
ventured to shake his head slightly. 

“But,” Johann continued, after a short pause, “otherwise, 
you get along well here in Vienna.” 

“Oh, yes, very well, and that you might do well also, and 
might escape at last from your miserable position of apothe- 
cary’s assistant in Bonn, I have sent for you to come here.” 

“ I thought Ludwig sent for me,” said the younger brother, 
naively. 

“ Who wrote to you, Ludwig or I? ” 

“ You wrote, certainly, but the money for the journey and 
the payment of my debts came from Ludwig, did they not? ” 

“Why, yes,” cried Karl, angrily, “but it was I who exacted 


148 


Beethoven : 


them from him, and who induced him to send for you to 
Vienna.” 

“Then I am doubly thankful,” said Johann, though he sus- 
pected that Karl, who had himself come helpless to Vienna, 
and owed his start in life almost wholly to his elder brother, 
Ludwig Van Beethoven, was painting in false colors. “ But 
what shall I do here now? ” Johann went on. “ Shall I begin 
again as dispenser or assistant to an apothecary without any 
prospect of independence in the future ? I should gain noth- 
ing by that.” 

“Ludwig wishes you to do this, certainly,” Karl answered; 
“ at least, he wishes you to practice a year or two with an apothe- 
cary in Vienna. In the meantime, you are to attend lectures ; 
but that is nothing. He ought to buy a drug-store for you.” 

“ Oho ! ” cried Johann, laughing, “you speak as if that were 
nothing. Bo you know what a drug-store costs?” 

“ Of course,” answered Karl, “ it would show very little broth- 
erly thought if I had not looked about me with that idea. Of 
course, we cannot talk of the larger drug-stores, but there are, 
in the suburbs of Vienna, smaller stores of this sort, which can 
be easily rented, and by the possession of which you can be 
independent, — and independent you must be if my plan ” 

“What plan?” 

“Of that, later. First of all, would you feel yourself equal 
to taking charge of a drug-store ? ” 

Johann hesitated a moment, then he said, “ I believe I could 
take charge of the business if it must be, but I confess to you 
that it would be better for me to do as Ludwig wishes.” 

“No, no, no ! ” The decided way in which he brought out 
this “no,” showed but too plainly the imperious character of 
this man, and how fixed the habit of ruling was with him. 
“No!” he cried again. “Here are these impractical ideas 
exactly like Ludwig’s. I see I must, first of all, initiate you 
into the state of things before you meet your brother.” 

Johann agreed readily ; the two brothers sat down on a bench, 
and Karl began : — 

“You know what unlimited good luck our brother Ludwig 
has always had. Even when we were in Bonn, while we had 
to take our share in the domestic scandal, and with the scanti- 
est living to receive many a blow from the world, he lived like 


A Biographical Romance. 


149 


a prince at least half the time in the Breunings’ house, and was 
received in all the fine houses, and even at court.” 

“But, dear Karl,” said the younger brother, smiling, “his 
reception in the latter place was certainly due only to his 
merit, — his art.” 

“To what?” cried Karl, and deep wrinkles settled upon his 
forehead, and an unmistakable expression of disgust showed 
itself upon his face. “ Can he help his art? Is it a merit in 
him that Heaven has endowed him with great talent?” 

“This must be confessed,” said Johann, “that if Ludwig 
had not cultivated his fine talents with great effort and unwear- 
ied industry, he would not have become what he now is.” 

“ It would have been just so with us,” said Karl, “if Heaven 
had bestowed upon us his talent.” 

Johann shook his head, smiling. “Bear brother,” he said, 
“ between us, we were both very wild, bad boys, and I have 
never read anything about industry in our reports, but very much 
about running away from school and playing foolish tricks.” 

“ Hm,” said Karl, with his lips pressed firmly together, then 
he added, with pride, “ Everyone of our family has a touch 
of genius in him, and, therefore, I consider Ludwig’s great 
talent a family treasure. Heaven gave it not to him but to us 
all, and the duty lies upon him to share with us the advantage 
which he gains from it.” 

“ Bo you mean this in jest or in earnest ? ” asked Johann. 

“ In the greatest earnest,” replied the elder of the two. “ I 
have thought much on this subject, and have at last convinced 
myself that I am right in my opinion. Yes,” he continued, 
and his little eyes shone slyly, “ if you wish to know, there 
rests upon us a moral obligation to convert into capital a part 
of that which Ludwig has acquired by his talent.” 

“An obligation?” repeated Johann, “I must confess ” 

“ That you do not understand me ? Very well. You know 
our Ludwig too little for that. You see, Ludwig was always 
an enthusiast, a fanatic, a very impractical man ” 

“ That is true,” said Johann. 

“Well, then,” continued the other, “he is a hundred times 
more so now than ever. Besides, he lives and moves in the 
broad realm of the imagination, of airy Utopias, of the intoxi- 
cating enthusiasm of the spheres, as he expresses himself in his 


150 


Beethoven : 


musical rhapsodies, and he is as eccentric in his ideas as in his 
actions. But the worst is that he knows nothing about money, 
or the value of money, nothing of domestic economy ; and, as 
his spirit is always tossed upon the waves of tone, he is never 
able to fix his foot firmly upon realities.” 

“ That is certainly bad,” said Johann, “even for him.” 

“That is what I say,” cried Karl, lifting his artful eyes 
sharply to the younger brother’s face. “He is over-reached and 
deceived every day by everybody, therefore, he ought to have 
a guardian, and, therefore, it is an unavoidable duty for us, as 
his brothers, who mean well by him, to take this guardianship 
upon ourselves.” 

“Truly,” said Johann, in a tone of honest conviction,“ if this 
is the condition of things, I cannot blame you.” 

“But,” Karl continued, “the case is not so easy as you may 
perhaps think, for Ludwig is, as you know, a stubborn, ill-tem- 
pered man, who will always run his head against the wall, and 
setting him right again is a terrible work. Then officious men, 
like Prince Lichnowsky and the old fool Van Swieten, have 
taken possession of him, and, under the pretext of friendship, 
lead him about in their own interest, and try to keep me, his 
own brother, at a distance. Now you will understand why I 
wanted you here from Bonn, but you will also perceive that we 
shall only be able to gain our end and save our brother if we 
go hand in hand in all things.” 

“Yes, I see that,” said Johann, convinced. 

“ Then,” Karl continued, laying his hand gently in that of 
his brother, “all that we do in our business affairs is, to a cer- 
tain extent, a common matter between us three brothers. We 
regard our property as a common family stock.” 

“That is, Ludwig’s property,” said Johann, “for neither of 
us has any.” 

“ Oli,” said Karl, angrily, with a contemptuous look at his 
brother, “do } r ou not, then, understand me? Just because 
Heaven has not endowed us, who are wiser, we wish with quiet 
precaution, as far as possible, to make capital of Ludwig’s 
income. This capital, then, to a certain extent, belongs to all 
of us.” 

“How?” 

“For example, Ludwig must buy you an apothecary’s store. 


A Biographical Romance. 


151 


The money which he will lay out in it is certainly his, hut, 
because I am at the foundation of the affair, and bring it to per- 
fection, and thus Ludwig will receive his money, a jusi: claim 
falls to me as well as to you, upon the increase of the capital, 
by a wise direction of the business itself. Do you understand 
me now ? ” 

“Perfectly,” said Johann, smiling slightly, and a cunning 
look shone out of his eyes. 

“Then the matter is arranged?” 

“Arranged.” 

“ We go hand in hand in all that I propose ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ And, since I understand affairs here, and my brother bet- 
ter, will you entrust yourself, at present, to my guidance uncon- 
ditionally ? ” 

“ That is a matter of course.” 

“You agree that Ludwig must buy you an apothecary’s 
store ? ” 

“Gladly.” 

“Will you also try to convince him that this is his duty as a 
brother? ” 

“With all the powers at my command.” 

“And that you will be very unhappy if he refuses? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Finally, you admit that I, as the founder of your house, 
your independence, and your fortune, have a just claim to your 
brotherly gratitude ? ” 

“ Certainly, dear Karl.” 

“ And you will joyfully come to my aid if I should now and 
then need your friendship ? ” 

“I will do this always willingly and gladly.” 

“Then,” cried Karl, beaming with joy as he rose, “ our bond 
is sealed. Your hand upon it, brother, that you will keep your 
word in all things.” 

“ Here it is,” answered Johann, and held out his right hand 
to his brother. 

“ And now to Ludwig’s house. How glad he will be to see 
you. That is the one beautiful quality in him, that he clings 
to his brothers with great affection.” 

And Karl and Johann left the Prater arm in arm to seek 
out their beloved brother. 


152 


Beethoven : 


PARADISE. 

When the two brothers reached Count Lichnowsky’s palace, 
and asked for Herr Ludwig Van Beethoven, the gigantic ^por- 
ter, who stood there very erect and in all his dignity, informed 
them with repeated “ Well, wells ! ” that Herr Van Beethoven 
had moved a few days before to Hetzendorf. 

At this information Karl shook his head in vexation. 

“ Here you see at once one of Ludwig’s silly and unpardon- 
able extravagances,” he said to his younger brother as they 
were going away. “ Is not this wasting money for himself and, 
therefore, for us ? Here Prince Lichnowsky gives him a magni- 
ficent home in his palace, his board, his washing, his servants, 
all free, horses to ride as many as he wishes, and, God knows, 
what else, and what do you think Ludwig does?” 

“ What ? ” asked Johann, curious. 

“ He hires rooms here and there in private houses or at inns, 
and straightway throws the money out of the window for rent, 
and so on.” 

“That is very foolish,” said Johann; “but is not Hetzendorf 
a country resort ? ” 

“ Certainly,” answered Karl, “ and a very beautiful one, too. 
The village is extremely pleasant, and lies close to the glorious 
grounds of Schönbrunn, the emperor’s castle.” 

“Ludwig is not to blame,” said the younger brother, “for 
spending a few weeks there in the summer. Perhaps he needs 
the refreshment ; perhaps, too, he can compose better there.” 

“ Nonsense,” cried Karl, angrily, “ why do you sustain him 
in his folly. He ought to stay at home like other respectable 
men. A man can work best at home. There are a thousand 
diversions in the country to draw one away from work, and so, 
by very unnecessary expense, and by waste of time, the loss 
becomes double.” 

“You are too severe, Karl.” 

“ I only wish my brother’s best good.” 

“ Then you must, at least, leave him his freedom.” 

“ That he may misuse it ? No ! ” 

“ Let us, at all events, await the result awhile.” 

“ I know that already,” cried Karl, with decision. “ But 


A Biographical Romance. 


153 


the worst of all is that he is thus withdrawn from my well-meant 
supervision. I know very well who has spurred him on to this 
summer trip, as you call it, — the old fellow, Van Swieten, and 
Prince and Princess Lichnowsky. Therefore, to undermine 
Ludwig’s implicit confidence in these people is our first and 
most important task.” 

Johann did not venture to say anything further, since he 
understood the relation between his brother and these men very 
superficially, or scarcely at all. Nevertheless, in spite of his 
limited information, he soon began, little by little, to see 
through his brother Karl and his impure principles. He was 
forced to say to himself that these principles, when applied to 
Ludwig, who had lifted Karl out of the dust, were base indeed. 
Yet something within him pleaded for them, envy at Ludwig’s 
good fortune, from which he was not free, and the wish excited 
by Karl to attain, like him, to independence and opulence. 

With a character so weak as J ohann’s, he was one of those 
men whom, as the saying is, a man can twist around his finger. 
Under the influence of his elder brother, who was his superior 
mentally, the struggle between honesty and selfishness could 
not long endure. The latter conquered all the more quickly, 
as laziness and sensuality came to its aid, qualities which had 
played a large part in Johann’s character from childhood. 
Karl’s good instructions on the way to Hetzendorf were 
scarcely needed to win Johann wholly to his plans. Long 
before the pleasant village showed itself the two brothers were 
agreed from the depths of their souls. 

But Ludwig Van Beethoven had not the remotest suspicion 
of the object of his brothers’ visit. As he lived almost wholly 
within, he was always inclined to forget outward events and cir- 
cumstances quickly, and it had quite passed out of his mind 
that he had sent for his younger brother from Bonn, that he 
might, in time, make his own living in Vienna. 

Besides, his mind at this time was more than ever in creative 
activity, for he was occupied with a great composition, Christ on 
the Mt. of Olives. How gloriously he could compose here with 
this paradise around him ! How unspeakably happy this loveli- 
ness and retirement of the country life made Ludwig ! But on 
this particular day he was not alone. Papa Van Swieten had 
sought him out, to bring him the first news of the truce of Pars- 
dorf, and Europe’s hopes of peace. 


154 


Beethoven : 


On this point Swieten and Beethoven were by no means of 
one and the same opinion. While the ‘ old papa ’ had commu- 
nicated the news to his favorite, beaming with joy, the latter 
had shrugged his shoulders almost in vexation, and said, “ Now 
the bright hopes of humanity are dashed again.” 

Although Yan Swieten knew long ago of Beethoven’s admi- 
ration for Napoleon Bonaparte, he could not understand him in 
this. “Peace, peace!” was now the cry of the whole world, 
and ought not, must not a lasting peace be especially welcome 
to an artist? 

The case stood thus : Swieten’s opinion was that of a quiet 
old man and a good citizen, living in good circumstances in 
Vienna, an artist and friend of music, but Beethoven, in the 
grandeur and strength of his young heart, took the higher stand- 
point of a cosmopolitan, including all humanity. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven was, in his political opinions, an 
ardent republican. Plato’s ‘ Republic’ had penetrated his flesh 
and blood. He, therefore, judged all the governments in the 
world according to its principles. In his opinion, everything 
should be arranged as the Greek philosopher had prescribed, and 
so he lived in the inflexible faith that Napoleon was working 
with no other plan than to republicanize France on similar 
principles, and that, therefore, the Consulate and Napoleon’s 
elevation to the rank of First Consul, were the beginning of 
universal good fortune.* Of course, the worldly-wise Swieten 
always disputed this fine but very utopian view of his friend 
with all his might, and very naturally today the conversation 
upon the truce and the hoped-for peace grew to a hot but 
bloodless battle. 

Beethoven was enthusiastic for the victor of Marengo, and 
had just been enlarging with glowing words to the ‘ old papa,’ 
who stood still before him, upon the glories of a platonic 
republic when the latter said : — 

“ Bo you really think, dear Beethoven, that Bonaparte is as 
high-minded as you suppose, and would make France happy 
under a republic on platonic principles?” 

“Yes, yes, that is what I believe. I am entirely convinced* 
of it,” said Beethoven, seriously. 

»Historic. Schindler, p. 56. Oulibicheff, p. 68. 


A Biographical Romance. 155 

“Would he then have permitted himself to usurp the office 
of First Consul?” 

“Why not? He saw that France could only be saved by 
him.” 

“No true republican will extort by force an office of the 
state for himself.” 

“If it comes to that point, every good citizen is under obliga- 
tion to save the state at any price. It is true that Napoleon 
made himself Director of France, but it must not be forgotten 
that the condition of his country at that moment demanded it.” 

“But not only France seems to be of importance to the 
little Corsican ; it almost seems to me as if he already pos- 
sessed too much power for the good of France.” 

“That Bonaparte possesses more power than is compatible 
with the freedom of the republic is undeniable, but, my dear 
old friend, that he has more power than is necessary to protect 
the republic and annihilate its enemies is not obvious to me.” 

“Dear Beethoven,” said Van Swieten, “I am an old man, 
and have experienced and observed much in the world, — 
believe me your Bonaparte’s thoughts are not as they appear. 
He is a great general, but I would pledge my head that he is 
a bad republican. If we now secure peace, he will, perhaps, 
turn his mind to the welfare of France, but if peace is not con- 
cluded, if Napoleon can draw the sword again, believe me it 
is then all over with republicanism'. So soon as the lion 
tastes blood ” 

“ No ! ” cried Beethoven, starting up, and running up and 
down in front of the garden-seat on which Van Swieten was 
sitting. “ No, Papa, there you are wrong. Napoleon is no 
hypocrite.” 

“But, at all events, a man.” 

“A great, a glorious man. As a general, an Alexander; as 
a republican, a Cato.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Van Swieten, smiling sadly, “and perhaps 
soon, like Caesar, a dictator perpetuus . ” 

“ I know very well,” Beethoven went on excited, “ that people 
cry out against him as a man without principle, without religion, 
but that is absurd. Because his thoughts are great, small 
natures cannot understand him. Is it not he who desires 
peace ? I have still in my hand the journal which you just 


156 


Beethoven : 


brought in. Shall I read to you the last proclamation from 
Paris ? ” 

“Do so certainly,” said the ‘old papa,’ smiling good-humor- 
edly.” 

“Well, then,” said Beethoven, placed himself in front of 
Van Swieten. and read: — 

“ ‘ Frenchmen, sons of the republic ! The First Consul calls 
upon you in the name of peace to turn your whole attention to 
the departure of the conscripts who have not yet followed the 
call of honor. Now that Europe sees before her eyes the sup- 
porters of the strength and wisdom of the republic, now that 
victory and success crown France, heroic arms defend the new 
regime , and the repeated assent of the whole nation has clearly 
recognized it, the warlike powers will probably not reject a 
peace which is offered them anew, and upon conditions which 
do not render their misfortunes worse. If, however, the obsti- 
nacy of the conquered is greater than the moderation of the 
conqueror, if the warlike powers, unfortunately for all nations, 
venture to continue the war, then a last effort must be made, 
and we must at length command the peace which we now 
offer.’” 

Beethoven paused, looked triumphantly at Van Swieten, and 
said, “ Is not that desiring peace honorably? Napoleon Bona- 
parte wishes it to blossom out of his victories upon the world. 
Oh, he is a great, a glorious man, — a man such as only the 
golden age of antiquity knew.” 

“Beethoven, ” cried the ‘old papa,’ astonished, “do not 
allow yourself to be wholly blinded by your enthusiasm for 
the greatness of this phenomenon. Do we know the conditions 
which France imposes? What if this readiness for peace were 
only cunning, and the conditions had been so imposed that the 
allied powers were not able to accept them?” 

“ Why such an unworthy supposition?” 

“ Because at the end of the peace proclamation the sword is 
already drawn from its sheath. Oh, he is a stormy fellow, this 
Napoleon. Would that I dared give him a single word for his 
life-journey.” 

“ What would that word be? ” 

“The excellent word jtnemo.” 

Beethoven laughed, sat down again, and said, “I do not 


A Biographical Romance. 


157 


believe that Napoleon is very musical, although he composes 
magnificent battle-symphonies, with obligato cannon-thunder. 
I must imitate that sometime in the realm of music, but very 
little piano would come in there. 

“Yet piano is my favorite word, and would surely be of 
immense use to your great Corsican. Piano is in all its meanings 
and applications an excellent little word. I would make the 
smallest child familiar with it. “ Chi va piano , va sano, chi 
va sano va lontano .” 

“And what would Papa Van Swieten say to musicians about 
his ‘ little word 

“ I would say to them, You who should bring to the orchestra 
harmony and enthusiasm, but to the listening ear the spirit of 
a poet, I say to you call every morning upon Apollo, ‘ Lead us 
not into temptation ’ to call a P an F, that at the day of judg- 
ment they whose expressive songs we have roared out, whose 
lungs we have injured, whose anger we have excited, may not 
rise in accusation against us because we have disfigured all the 
productions of the gentlest of arts by our everlasting forte.” 

“Bravo, bravissimo /” cried Beethoven, charmed. 

“ The great composer of your * battle-symphonies, with obligato 
cannon-thunder,’” he went on ardently, “my little word piano 
would not harm even him. If, in the great pause after his battles, 
he would open his eyes and look at the thousands whom he has 
stricken down with the notes of his cannon, — human beings like 
himself, fathers, brothers, bridegrooms, and sons, — then perhaps, 
if he has any heart at all, the writhing of the wounded, the 
struggles of the dying, lamentations of those left behind, would 
call out to him with fearful solemnity, ‘ Piano , piano.'’ Or, if 
he should look back upon history, would not the fearful over- 
throw of so many conquerors, the fate of so many ambitious 
men, the bloody shade of Caesar, sound the warning trumpet- 
call ‘ Piano ! piano ! ’ But I fear that the common thunder of 
the battle he has won and the triumphal victory of his own 
egotism have so weakened his moral ear that he no longer hears 
the ‘ Piano ’ which the voice of God in his own soul and in 
humanity is calling out to him.” 

Van Swieten had risen. “It is enough,” he said. “I have 
not come to Hetzendorf to stir you to new thoughts. So let us 
let politics rest, and show me rather the pleasant paradise near 


158 


Beethoven : 


you where you pluck your glorious musical thoughts like pre- 
cious fruit from the trees.” 

“ With pleasure,” said Beethoven, who was also glad to take 
up another theme, for he knew that he never could agree with 
Van Swieten in his political opinions. He therefore gave his 
arm to the ‘ old papa,’ and led him out into the pretty garden 
adjoining the house. Then they turned their steps to the won- 
derful park of the Schönbrunn Castle. 

Here they were indeed in paradise. The sun shone with a 
southern glow, but in the shady paths and under the green and 
almost impenetrable foliage blew a refreshing breeze, so that 
they drew in the spicy air in long draughts of satisfaction. 
Then the grouping of the trees, the variety of the prospect, the 
meadows and the waters, now hidden, now coming into view, 
the whole beautiful design rejoiced every heart sensitive to the 
beauties of nature. 

“ But this is not the chief charm,” said Beethoven. “ This, 
dear Papa Van Swieten, you have seen often enough : sit down a 
moment on this mossy bank, almost surrounded with shrubbery, 
and do not speak a word.” 

Swieten did so, and the two men were silent for a long time. 

What soundless stillness surrounded them. It seemed as if 
the whole world lay in a blissful trance. The light leaves of 
the birches scarcely stirred with the gentle breath of air. No 
sound was heard save the humming and buzzing of the myriads 
of beetles and flies. This grand repose of all nature poured 
itself into their hearts. Their bosoms heaved with rapture and 
reverence. With holy thrills they, felt the nearness of the 
Eternal, the Divine Spirit overflowing all the universe. 

The eyes of the two men flashed with enthusiasm. Swieten 
seized Beethoven’s hand, and said : — 

“ Yes, my friend, now I understand why you call Hetzen- 
dorf your paradise, and compose so wonderfully here.” 

“Now you must see my particular little spot where I com- 
pose, my Delphic tripod, my sanctuary of Apollo,” cried Beet- 
hoven, beaming with delight. “And you may pride yourself 
a little upon that for no one but Papa Swieten is permitted to 
look upon it.” 

He took Swieten on his arm again, and led him to a hill on 
the left side of the Gloriett. But suddenly he paused. It was 


A Biographical Romance. 


159 


an unusually cozy place, surrounded by dense foliage, and so 
roofed by the branches of two oaks that it was like a little, 
green temple. The two oaks had sprung from the same root, 
and they separated from the main trunk about two feet from 
the ground.* 

“ Here is my Delphic tripod,” cried Beethoven, merrily, and 
sat down as upon a throne, on the main trunk between the two 
pillars which rose toward heaven. 

“Oh, this is beautiful!” said Van Swieten; “how I rejoice 
in what will yet come forth from this place.” 

They now went back, Swieten feeling extremely happy to see 
his young friend so contented, which had scarcely ever been the 
case in the city. Ah! he did not remember that in every 
paradise there is a serpent, and — Karl and Johann Van Beet- 
hoven had just arrived at Hetzendorf. 

The surprise was great for Ludwig, but it was no less happy, 
for no one could cling to his brothers with a more tender and 
sincere affection than he. 

How much Johann had to tell of his former circumstances. 
How many questions Ludwig asked about home and the friends 
and acquaintances in Bonn. . Joyful and sad memories were 
awakened. Before Ludwig’s inward vision his whole child-hood 
and youth appeared, and he, who was not usually given to much 
talking and story-telling, gave, uninvited, to Papa Van Swio- 
ten a complete outline of that time. With what reverence he 
remembered his grandfather, whose picture Ludwig had brought 
with him from Bonn. With what tender, child-like love he 
mentioned his pious mother. And when afterwards Johann 
asked him about many things, especially about his present life, 
how the floods of his soul were opened : what glimpses any other 
man than the apothecary might have had of that deep intel- 
lectual life whose splendor now shone upon them. 

But Johann and Karl only listened. For the first his broth- 
er’s words had no meaning, although they were addressed to 
him, and Karl heard nothing of them, for he was thinking of 
his plans, and could have died with vexation that Swieten had 
come in his way. But the ‘ old papa,’ who had long mistrusted 


* Schindler, p. 47. Kapell-meister Schindler himself, in company with 
Beethoven, saw, in the year 1823, this double oak with which, for the great 
master of tone, were bound so many fond recollections. 


160 


Beethoven : 


Karl, was glad to be here and oppose as far as possible the 
influence of these men who were so repulsive to him. 

But he could not do this today, for gradually and naturally 
the conversation turned upon the younger brother’s future. 
Ludwig insisted upon his plan, that Johann should first work 
for two years as assistant in a Vienna apothecary, and attend 
a few lectures in the meantime, to complete his education. 
According to agreement, Karl pretended to be wholly of his 
opinion, and only regretted that his brother was not yet self- 
reliant enough to take charge of the business, because there was 
just at that time an apothecary’s store for sale in the neighbor- 
hood of Vienna at a merely nominal price; but Johann was to 
act as if he felt unspeakably miserable at the thought of being 
an assistant again. He had been so well-instructed by Karl 
that he soon after left the room, and when Ludwig went to look 
for him, he fell upon his neck weeping with the words : — 

“ Ludwig, dear Ludwig, if I am to enter again upon my old 
and painful position of dependence, let me rather go back to 
Bonn, where I have one spot, my mother’s grave, where I can 
weep away the lonely hours.” 

This, on this beautiful day, immediately after seeing J ohann 
again, and in the midst of Ludwig’s deep and almost sacred 
emotion, was too much for his brotherly heart. 

“No, no,” he said, comforting him, “ as long as your brother 
Ludwig lives you shall not mourn over your solitude at the 
grave of your sainted mother. Karl knows of a cheap drug- 
store. If you can trust yourself ” 

“ Brother ! ” cried Johann, delighted. 

“Hush! ’’said Ludwig. “I will talk with Karl about it 
afterwards. It, of course, depends upon whether the little 
money I have laid up is enough to buy such an establishment.” 

“But ” 

“No more ‘ifs and buts.’ We are brothers, so we will be 
one in heart. Only one more request. Say nothing about this 
before Herr Van Swieten. I dislike publicity in such matters.” 

They went back, one supported by the thought of making a 
sacrifice for his brother, the other happy at the brilliant prospect 
for his future which had so suddenly opened, but deeply 
ashamed of his own meanness, in contrast with his brother’s 
love and magnanimity. 


A Biographical Romance. 


161 


BETWEEN THE TWO BRANCHES OF AN OAK. 

If every great artistic nature, says Ernst Von Elter lein, 
in his excellent hook, Beethoven’s Symphonies Ideally Con- 
sidered, is a world in itself, carries a world within it, this was, 
above all, true of Beethoven, for his world is that of his own 
self for itself, his inmost personality. But the meaning of this 
world is only fully understood when we contrast it with that of 
an artist like Mozart. 

Who would deny that Mozart carried a universe within him, 
and reflected it in his works. Let us consider his operas. Can 
a richer world of real forms be found in any other tone-poet ? 
Certainly not. But we have here a world not of the subject 
for itself in its relations to his inmost being : we have a world 
of real forms. On the contrary, Beethoven’s world is the deep 
inwardness of his own self. 

If we follow Mozart into the brilliant diversity of life, we are 
led by Beethoven into an inner world independent of the outer. 
An infinity of the mind is opened to us. The depths of our 
own subjectivity, the infinity of our own soul, is revealed. 
Music, therefore, in him, becomes the representation of subjec- 
tivity, of the Ego absorbed in itself. It is by no means true 
that this inner, subjective world, because it has no room for an 
objective world of forms like Mozart’s, is therefore limited, 
without variety: rather does it reveal the greatest wealth within, 
a fullness of interior force. 

The infinity of emotions necessarily includes an infinite vari- 
ety of moods. This rich world cannot, therefore, be expressed 
by limited definitions. It requires a universe of tones as broad 
as itself. The more powerful feeling is the more certainly, 
when it enters the limited sphere of tone, will it raise it to 
infinity, and reveal its whole depth. 

So it was with Beethoven, the breadth and comprehensiveness 
of his feeling was always met by the corresponding breadth of 
his peculiar musical force. It would, therefore, be vain to 
attempt to express Beethoven’s feeling in a few words. This 
world of joy and pain, of love and hate, of struggle and victory, 
of discord and reconciliation, lives immortal in his tones alone. 
It withdraws from other expression, and even if we succeed in 


162 


Beethoven • 


giving a distinct idea of separate periods, we are silently con- 
vinced that, though by our explanation we have approached the 
solution of the mystery, we still stand far enough from its 
inmost heart. * 

In order rightly to judge of Beethoven’s character and influ- 
ence now and in the farther course of this work a few words 
are necessary. When Beethoven’s genius began to stir the 
wings of his imagination he was not yet the powerful personality 
to which we have just referred. This great man, like every 
individual, needed a period of development. This must, of 
course, be great in proportion to the depth of his nature, to the 
germs of development which it concealed. 

So in Beethoven’s artistic progress three epochs appear. 
The first epoch shows Beethoven when his compositions, with all 
their distinct peculiarities as a whole, in style and character, 
approach Haydn and Mozart, and this is the epoch in which our 
hero is moving in the beginning of the 19th century. Upon the 
second epoch his aim seems distinctly impressed. Finally, the 
third is that in which the condition of a lonely man, alienated 
from all human intercourse, is overwhelmingly presented, — the 
epoch of his diseased introspective subjectivity, t 

Of the symphonies the first one belongs to the first period, 
the second symphony to the transition into the second, the third 
to the eighth fall wholly within the second epoch ; finally, the 
last symphony lies within the third period, t 

Let us now step nearer to our hero, who is passing through 
this process of development. 

The dawn was still fresh and rosy in the eastern horizon when 
Ludwig Van Beethoven, cheerful as usual, sat at a table by 
the open window composing. But it was not his Christ on the 
Mount of Olives. He had laid aside this composition, almost 
completed, when a new, grand thought came to him. It was 
always his habit to carry about in his mind, and compose, sev- 
eral pieces at once. His inner life, now so joyous, the sense of 
his own full strength in the freshness of manhood, the bold, self- 
reliance, based not on perfection of power, but on solid knowl- 

* Beethoven’s Symphonies Ideally Considered, with special reference to 
Haydn, Mozart, and the new Symphonists, by Ernst Yon Elterlein, 2nd 
edition, p. 21-24. 

t Schindler, Oulibiclieff, Brendel, Elterlein, etc. 

$ Elterlein, p. 27. 


A Biographica\ Romance. 


163 


edge, — all this impelled him tc that kind of tone-creation which 
was his ideal, the symphony. 

He had already written one in C major, but it no longer sat- 
isfied him ; he had evidently grown more mature, and so it 
seemed to him too mild, — a picture of innocent pleasure, of 
idyllic content. Now he desired more. He felt the throbbing 
of the wings of genius. Why should he hinder the eagle from 
rising to the clouds ? 

But he could not do anything in his room today, so he threw 
down his pen, slipped on his coat, seized his hat, and rushed 
out into the castle garden. How glorious it was there ! How 
fresh and strong the morning air as it blew upon him ! Trees, 
shrubs, and plants sent forth delicious fragrance; everywhere 
the dew-drops glistened and sparkled in the rays of the sun, as 
it rose majestically, and over all nature lay that unspeakable 
loveliness peculiar to the morning light. It was all so peaceful, 
so quiet, here again that Ludwig’s heart was almost bursting 
with delight. High in the air, scarcely visible to human eye, 
hundreds of larks were singing as they soared, birds were twit- 
tering and hopping from twig to twig, and far away in the blue 
ether a falcon was making his circling flight. 

A joyful feeling of courage came over the youth, a strong 
sense of confidence in his own strength. Ludwig Van Beet- 
hoven stopped with surprise at a curve in the thickly-wooded 
path; two young ladies, followed by a servant, were coming 
toward him, and were already so near him that, in his stormy 
way, he had almost run over them. Nothing but his sudden 
halt protected them from his awkwardness. 

But, ah, what a face he beheld ! What a charming girl stood 
before him ! For, of the two ladies, he saw but one, and this 
one passed by him only too quickly. Ludwig remained as if 
rooted to the spot, fixing the picture firmly in his mind. What 
a charming little face, with its pure oval, what black, bewitch- 
ing eyes, with the pale complexion, and that sweet, girlish blush 
upon the cheeks! How spirited the expression, how slender the 
figure, with its simple, white, linen dress, fastened at the waist 
by a rose-colored sash, the ends of which hung down to her feet, 
and fluttered in the morning breeze ! How gracefully the little 
straw hat, trimmed with a simple ribbon and an artistic bunch 
of violets, rested upon the thick, black hair ! 


164 


Beethoven : 


Ludwig gazed after the girl. It was but a slight glance 
that he had caught, but it had that wonderful power which 
opens even cold hearts, and grants them a glimpse into the 
soul’s warm, pulsating life, into the sweet charm of poetry. 
No woman had ever made so deep an impression upon Beet- 
hoven as this modest creature with the deep, beautiful eye, the 
simple loveliness, and unassuming grace. 

Ludwig looked after her as if stunned, when the girl and her 
companions had long ago disappeared behind the curve of the 
road. It was a long time before he came to himself. 

Suddenly, a great thought flashed upon him. It seemed as 
if a veil of mist was tom away, and the sun looked in from 
the blue sky. A second symphony of thought dawned upon his 
soul, he hurried to his Delphic tripod, and a few minutes later 
he sat between the two branches of the oak, hastily pulled 
note-paper and pencil from his pocket, and began to write. It 
was his second symphony in D major, and it was not to be the 
only one to proceed from this place. Do you hear it rushing 
by, the stream of its divine melody? 

The master gives us the picture of the youthful life, bold in 
the expression of its power, and tender in its love-struggle. 
He throws it off in clear tone-colors, the picture of an individu- 
ality which does not reveal itself in a one-sided, limited direc- 
tion. Its feeling is all-sided, a complete revelation of the inner 
self. How richly and variously this fundamental tone is devel- 
oped in all its modulations. The ideal, youthful form is seen 
in the harmonious introduction full of a proud self-reliance. 
The first tones represented in quiet emotion; the wings of 
youthful strength are only slightly stirred, but soon they are 
opened and rush on breaking the narrow bounds, and now the 
stream follows its course unhindered. The allegro shows us the 
picture of unfettered emotion. 

Then we experience with him the manly stirring of his per- 
sonality in all directions, and almost instantly we see it entan- 
gled in struggle and strife. But they are not the deep strug- 
gles of the man’s soul : we feel only the less stern conflict of 
the youthful nature. Like shadow-pictures, they flit across the 
stage, — a spirit of joyful courage always wins the upper hand 
again, and rises in its grandeur at the end. 

Then the first accord from the kingdom of love strikes upon 


165 


A Biographical Romance. 

the ear. Oh, listen, only listen to the tones of the larghetto in 
A major. Who can escape their charm ? Who is not, like the 
sainted youthful composer, drawn deeper into a sea of rapture 
till the blessed waves of self-forgetfulness dash over him ? 

But this enchanting picture of love has vanished quiek ly, 
leaving no trace. A soft lament of the heart penetrates the 
soul, light clouds of mist pass over the bright sky of life, then, 
all at once, in the clear F major triad, the sun breaks through 
again, and the breast of the hero heaves with courage as he 
draws the blessed breath of love. 

Now up again, up out of the hidden sanctuary of the heart, 
to the bright light of day, into the wide world of universal 
pleasure and excitement. Do they not resound in the scherzo ? 
— the merry, bold pleasure in living, the bubbling, indestructi- 
ble good-nature ? Sometimes we hear a voice of calm satisfac- 
tion, or a feeling of peaceful introspection makes a way for 
itself. 

But the waves of careless, youthful joy in living dash over 
it again ; they rush in stronger and stronger, all the pulses of 
life beat more quickly; the excitement reaches the climax, and 
the fine, rich tone-painting sounds out in grand accords, — the 
youthful hero has completely revealed his inner self. 

What a magnificent creation! and what charm it receives 
from that instrumentation, brilliant with color and light, which 
calls to us with exultation, This is a work of Ludwig Van 
Beethoven ! * 


NOT FINDING, AND YET FINDING. 

The education of women, alas, too often becomes miseduca- 
tion. Its real value depends upon the arrangement of knowl- 
edge and skill into a harmonious whole, and its practical influ- 
ence upon head and heart. These few words include much, in 
fact, they embrace the whole idea. The head and heart are the 
two factors whose common and equal culture should be aimed at. 

*See Beethoven’s Symphonies Ideally Considered, by E. Y. Elterlein, 2nd 
Symphony, D major, p. 31. 


166 


Beethoven : 


Julie Guicciardi had received a very superior education under 
the direction of a mother of varied acquirements and fine cul- 
ture. The child of parents of wealth and high position, noth- 
ing had been spared to add fine intellect and amiability to a 
charming personal appearance, and nature had prepared the 
way. 

Julie was now in her twenty-first year. Ludwig Van Beetr 
hoven had already felt the power of her external charms when, 
for only one moment, he looked into her lovely face in the park 
of the Schönbrunn Castle. How much more he would have 
been charmed by her intellectual beauty and her noble charac- 
ter. It was, indeed, a peculiar charm, not exactly produced by 
compendious learning, yet her rare intellect, the wealth of 
thought at her command, and her correct criticisms, had a pow- 
erful attraction for all who came in contact with her. Every- 
thing about her was poetic and beautiful, and her innate tact 
and delicacy had given to her character such a harmonious 
finish that her influence upon everyone was soothing and 
beneficen". 

Far from the wild, rushing stream of a stormy life in the 
world, in the entire seclusion of the domestic circle, loved and 
guided by a tender mother, Julie early became susceptible to all 
noble influences which stir the soul. 

Poetry and music stand in a two-fold relation to human cul- 
ture, — -that of form, since by clothing imagination in rhyth- 
mical expression, they seek to bring truth and instruction 
nearer, — and that of substance, because, seeking always what is 
sublimest and most beautiful, they endeaver to appropriate to 
man what is highest in his nature. But they do still more. 
They keep it always before his eyes that he must make passing 
enjoyment secondary to lasting satisfaction, the material to the 
spiritual, and, in the conflict of inclinations and duties, must, 
by conquering self, and rising above what is low, sacrifice every-, 
thing to nobility and purity of thought. 

Amid such ideas Julie grew up and became not exactly 3 
poetess and virtuoso, but rather a charming votary of poetry 
and music. She devoted herself to both arts with her pure, 
girlish heart, and pursued them with much taste for her enjoy-, 
ment and higher culture. Therefore, in a short time her wid- 
owed mother had left her quiet retreat in the country, and 


167 


A Biographical Romance. 

had come with her daughter to Vienna, which might, at that 
time, have been called a high-school of music. 

Both found the warmest reception in Count Gallenberg’s fam- 
ily, Julie’s mother and the old Countess Gallenberg having 
been friends in their youth. But the visit was most pleasing to 
the young count of twenty-four years, who, from the first 
moment that he saw Julie, was in love with her. It was unfor- 
tunate that, being a soldier, duty called him away from Vienna 
after the first three days. Yes, his evil star willed that he 
should not even go today on the excursion to Schonbrunn which 
the Prince and Princess Lichnowsky had arranged, and on which 
the old Count Gallenberg, with his wife, his daughter, the 
two Guicciardis, and a number of other gentlemen and ladies 
were going. 

On account of the glorious weather and the July heat, they 
had started very early, and had taken breakfast together, mid 
jests and merriment, at one of the most beautiful spots in the 
castle garden, when Prince Lichnowsky started up in company 
with Baron Pasqualati to look for friend Beethoven, who must 
not be missing at this country fete of his patrons. At the same 
time, Julie proposed to her friend to take a walk through the 
grounds, which they did, accompanied by an old servant. 

But chance often plays a strange game in life. While the 
young girls, who did not know Beethoven were meeting him, his 
two friends looked for him in vain. He was not to be found, — 
not in his house, not in the grounds of the castle, not in the neigh- 
borhood ; he did not even come home to dinner, — for Ludwig 
Van Beethoven sat in the thicket in the park, in his Delphic 
tripod, between the two branches of the oak, in the loftiest 
flight of inspiration, without hearing or seeing anything in the 
world, and composing his symphony in D major. 

For him the earth had passed away, his bodily self was no 
longer present. He was still living only in music. Which of 
the servants who were sent out could have found this well- 
hidden spot where the great master now sat creating ? But a 
picture found its way thither; it was the picture of Julie Guic- 
ciardi, which had fixed itself firmly in Beethoven’s heart and 
mind, and now was passing into his creation in sweet, magical 
tones. 

Ah ! he did not dream that she was near, — did not dream 


1G8 


Beethoven : 


that his friends were looking for him, not only to greet him and 
invite him to the fite, but especially to introduce him to this 
same Julie Guicciardi, who, an ardent admirer of his composi- 
tions, was very desirous to become acquainted with the great 
Beethoven, having heard from Prince Lichnowsky that he was 
there. 

“ Then you have not found him ? ” Julie asked when Prince 
Lichnowsky and Baron Pasqualati came back without him. 

“No, my dear,” said the prince, with irritation. “We have 
been at his house, and have learned that he went out very early, 
whither no one knew ; but he had not ordered his dinner, an 
evidence that he by no means intended to go far from here. 
None of the servants found him, yet I would stake my head 
that he is sitting composing in some corner of this park, con- 
cealed in the dense thicket.” 

“Oh,” cried Julie, touching her fine forehead with the fin- 
gers of one hand, as if a thought suddenly came over her, “ I 
believe, after all, I met him without knowing it.” 

“ How? Where ? ” cried Lichnowsky. 

“About an hour ago,” answered Julie, “when you and 
Baron Pasqualati rose from breakfast to look for the great mas- 
ter, and bring him to the company, I begged Countess Aurelia 
to show me a little more of the park. Not far from the Glori- 
ett, at a curve in the path, we met a man who was hurrying 
quickly on. Of course, I scarcely noticed him, but now, when 
I recall the hasty impression of his appearance, it grows in 
importance, and agrees with the description which the princess 
has given me of Beethoven.” 

“You cannot depend upon that,” said Lichnowsky, smiling, 
“for if my wife has given you a description of Beethoven, you 
will scarcely recognize him by it.” 

“How is that? ” 

“ Because she looks at her favorite quite too much with the 
eyes of a tender mother.” 

“ Yet I believe ” 

“Tell us, was it a man with a short, stout figure?” 

“I think so, simply dressed.” 

“Quite right.” 

“Yet, when I recall the momentary impression, there was 
something imposing and dignified in his appearance.” 


169 


A Biographical Romance. 

“ That is so. His head ” 

“ Was a little broad, and surrounded by a wealth of brown 
hair.” 

“ Something like a lion’s mane ? ” said the prince, brightly. 

“I did not think of that,” the young lady went on in a jok- 
ing way, “ and yet you may not be wholly wrong. At least, I 
remember that I was a little frightened, but rather at the maj- 
esty and a certain wild energy of his face than at the growth 
of hair.” 

“ It was he,” said the prince. “ There remains no doubt at 
all. His forehead broad, thickly shaded above by the brown 
hair, bordered below by thick, bushy eye-brows, forming great 
arches. The eyes, — but you smile ? ” 

“ Because your Grace considers me quite too talented. With 
such powers of observation, one might become chief-of-police.” 

“Anyone like you,” said the prince, “who has cultivated 
his eye as a practiced artist, can grasp in one second more, and 
more correctly, than any other mortal in an hour.” 

“ Then I will confess to you that, at the moment when this 
man passed me, I saw his eyes light up wonderfully, and this 
light in the eyes gave to his face a very intellectual expression.” 

“Ah!” said the prince, “it seems, then, that I was not mis- 
taken regarding your quick, keen glance. There is no longer 
any doubt that you met Beethoven without knowing it while 
we were seeking him in vain.” 

At this moment Archduke Budolph and the Princess Lob- 
kowitz and Kinsky came out of the castle and walked up to the 
company. They all rose, and, after greetings were exchanged, 
the conversation took another turn. 

Prince Lichnowsky quietly sent the servants out again to 
look for Beethoven in the neighborhood of the Gloriett, but they 
came back this time also without accomplishing their object. 

The day passed for the company, however, in undisturbed 
mirth, and the visit to Hetzendorf pleased Julie and her 
mother so well that they decided to spend a few weeks there, 
which was the more convenient as they were but a short dis- 
tance from the capital. Count Gallenberg promised to make 
the necessary preparations immediately, and Prince Lichnowsky 
reserved for himself the pleasure of introducing his protegee, 
Beethoven, to the ladies. 


170 


Beethoven : 


As they drove home in the evening, and passed Hetzendorf, 
the tones of a violin fell upon their ears. 

“ That is Beethoven,” cried Prince Lichnowsky, hurried his 
horse forward to the carriage in which Countess Gailenberg sat 
with Julie and her mother, and gave the coachman a sign to 
stop. While the others rolled on to the capital, those who 
remained behind listened with almost reverent timidity to the 
wonderful tones from the master which came out into the twi- 
light and penetrated their hearts. 

Where was Ludwig Van Beethoven? He stood in the 
middle of his dark room with his old, true friend, his favorite 
violin, resting against the wall. The window was open, and he 
was lost in thought, looking out into the wide world as it sank 
away in the twilight. He alone understood his beloved violin 
as it now uttered a lament, and then cried out in triumph. It 
was a hymn to two wonderful black eyes, which belonged to a 
charming little face. It was to that delicate slender figure of 
a girl which had flitted by him today. It was an elegiac 
sigh over the swift vanishing of a blessed moment. 

All listened breathless, but Julie’s feelings were indescrib- 
ably strange. Her heart, all at once, beat so violently that she 
had to press her hand upon it, and it almost seemed to her as if 
some one were reaching out after her. She shuddered. 

“ Are you cool, dear child ? ” asked her anxious mother. But 
the prince made a sign to the coachman, bowed as he turned his 
horse away, and the carriage rolled on. 


THE THUNDER ROLLS. 

Beethoven had slept very badly through the night. He had 
come from Hetzendorf to Vienna for a few days, because his 
Christ on the Mount of Olives was to be performed at Prince 
Lichnowsky’s, and perhaps also for his benefit in a large con- 
cert at the Vienna Theatre.* 

*The latter performance, as above mentioned, did not take place till three 
years later. 


A Biographical Romance. 


171 


At Prince Lichnowsky’s everything came off as Beethoven 
wished. There was the old friendliness, the same hearty recep- 
tion as usual, and the same readiness for every service. The 
prince himself had anticipated his friend in preparations for the 
performance of his composition, while the princess had super- 
intended the arrangement of his rooms with motherly care. 

The world showed itself less amiable. The conflict with 
envy and disfavor which characterizes all great performances 
could not he absent from Beethoven : s. 

Much vexation was caused by the miserable intrigue by 
which the public performance of his Christ on the Mount of 
Olives was met on all sides. 

But it was not alone the displeasure growing out of this 
which caused him a sleepless night. Other and more painful 
thoughts were running in his head, distressing him and putting 
him out of humor. 

His brother Karl had been to see him the day before, and 
had told him many things fitted to stir up a character suspicious 
by nature, and turn it off its balance. Karl was so frank, 
expressed himself with such brotherly interest, and meant so 
well by him, and yet it was impossible for Ludwig to agree with 
him. 

Karl had not exactly warned him against the prince and 
princess and Van Swieten. Oh, no! He had gone to work 
with far more delicacy and cunning. He had praised them, 
and, with Ludwig, recognized how much he was indebted to 
them for their kindness ; but Karl could not help warning his 
brother against this thing and that. For in his own and thv 
general public opinion the Lichnowskys and Van Swieten had 
shown him so much kindness only that they might make a boast 
of his friendship. With a great show of eloquence, Karl 
proved that everything which had been done or might be done 
by the prince and the ‘ old papa ’ was done simply from self- 
ishness. They were robbing Ludwig of liberty that they might 
harness him to their own triumphal car ; they were shutting 
him into the exclusive circle of the nobility, that they might 
cut him off from the favor of the people, out of envy at his 
important position in the realm of music ; they were checking 
the free flight of his genius by unworthy guardianship, and so on. 

If anyone else had brought forward these accusations, it 


172 


Beethoven : 


would have oeen all over with him forever in Ludwig’s friend- 
ship. But Karl was his brother ; he certainly meant well by 
him. It could not be otherwise, for did not he owe to Ludwig 
all that he possessed? 

“You go too far in your brotherly love and anxiety for me,” 
was therefore the gentle and only reply which Ludwig made to 
his brother at the end of the evening. But, strangely, much 
of this conversation remained fixed in Ludwig’s soul. He had 
a strong mind, was a noble man, but in the background of his 
character there lay concealed a suspicious tendency which, like 
a polyp at the bottom of the sea, was continually stretching out 
its arms for prey, and let nothing escape which it had once 
caught. 

Thinking of all these things Beethoven had not closed his 
eyes during the whole night. His reason and bright feeling 
repeatedly acquitted the accused, but the accursed implications 
came back again and again, running like a poisonous spider over 
his soul. Yes, they were really spinning invisible threads 
around his ingenuous nature. 

When Ludwig started up early in the morning from a short, 
almost feverish, doze, he felt in a painful mood. The cheerful- 
ness which he had brought with him from Hetzendorf had com- 
pletely disappeared, his freedom with his friends was restrained, 
and a sort of depression, an inexplicable discouragement, lay 
heavy upon him. He had that strange, uncomfortable feeling 
that he must escape from his own self. Why ? Because another 
personality was asserting itself within him, — trust awakened by 
Karl, thus his brother’s personality, — and he had not found the 
courage to tear it out of his soul, because he had too much con- 
fidence in his brother. 

Then came the disagreeable duties of the dawning day. 
There were still many things to be altered, rehearsals to be held, 
the intrigues of miserable creatures to be opposed, and other 
tasks of this sort. Was no one at hand? But — a thought 
flashed upon Ludwig. 

Two days before, the first day that he came from Hetzendorf, 
a fine young man, about sixteen years old, had presented a 
letter to Beethoven, introducing himself as Ferdinand Hies, 
son of liis old friend the concert-master, Franz Hies, at Bonn, 
with whom he had spent so many happy hours at the Breun- 


A Biograyhical Romance. 


173 


mgs’ house. Bonn had been greatly reduced by the war. 
Max Franz with all his court had long ago* at the entrance 
of the French, been obliged to leave his residence, had been 
staying since then at Mergentheim, and now, as Bies wrote, was 
to return at once to Vienna. There was, therefore, little pros- 
pect of the talented young man making farther progress in 
Bonn, so his father had sent him to Vienna, and given him a 
letter of introduction to Beethoven. The friendly relations in 
which the elder Bies had always stood toward Beethoven in his 
boyhood and youth justified him in the expectation that the 
latter would receive his son kindly, and Bies was not disap- 
pointed. 

Beethoven, in whom all the youthful memories were 
awakened by his friend’s letter, and by his sending his son, held 
out his hand heartily and said : — 

“I cannot reply to your father now, but write him that I 
have not forgotten how my mother died, and he will soon be 
convinced of it.”* 

After this Beethoven had a talk with the youth, and, recog- 
nizing great talent in him, at once promised him to have a care 
for his progress, and assured him that he would instruct him, 
a kindness which Bies fully appreciated. 

The master was just then too much occupied with prepara- 
tions for the performance of his Christ on the Mount of 
Olives to predict or do anything definite, but he told the 
young man to expect a call from him at any moment. 

The moment had now come. Beethoven felt that he needed 
just such an assistant, that he might set trifles aside and go on 
in his bold way undisturbed, and, on the other hand, the young 
man might gain from this opportunity under his direction 
much practical knowledge. Ludwig, with whom execution fol- 
lowed thought, like thunder after lightning, seized, therefore, 
the bell near his bed and rang. 

A short time passed and no one came. Impatient at this, 
but without looking at the clock or remembering that it was only 
four o’clock in the morning, he pulled the bell again with such 
force that the sound could be heard in the whole palace. After 

* Beethoven’s own words. They refer to the fact that concert-master Ries, 
by great sacrifices, supported the Beethoven family, who were in very dis- 
tressed circumstances at the time of the mother’s death. 


174 


Beethoven : 


a few minutes something came flapping up the stairs. There 
was a knock, and a rough “ Come in ” followed. 

At the same moment the door opened, and an immense 
figure wrapped, in spite of the summer, in a fur night-dress 
pushed his way in. The enormous head, like a giant’s, which 
came spreading out from under his night-cap, and ran over and 
under his mouth, announced at once the Swiss who was 
intrusted with the office of porter for Prince Lichnowsky, hut 
who had never seen Switzerland, being really a good Austrian, 
born in Linz. Notwithstanding the great displeasure at being 
roused so early, which was expressed in the man’s face, he drew 
himself up in a lofty and dignified manner, according to the 
custom of his office, stretching out stiffly the hand which usually 
held the strong porter’s cane with the large silver head. 

“Well!” was heard at the same time from the recesses of 
his beard, “as everyone is still sleeping, I have come. What 
is your honor’s pleasure ? ” 

“Everyone is still asleep? Why, what time is it?” 

“Well,” said the porter according to his habit, “just four 
o’clock.” 

“The sleepy heads are still in bed?” asked Ludwig again, 
grimly. “Yes, indeed,” he muttered to himself, thinking 
involuntarily of what his brother had said to him the evening 
before, “I am in a nest of the nobility, it is true. Only the 
common burgher understands the proverb, ‘ The morning hour 
has gold in his mouth.’” 

“Well!” said the porter, drawing himself up loftily in his 
negligee , although he had understood nothing of what Beet- 
hoven had just said, “ has your honor any commands ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered the latter, “send young Ries to me.” 

“Now, at four o’clock in the morning?” asked the Swiss, 
making great eyes. 

“Yes, now,” repeated Ludwig, imperatively. “ He will be of 
no use to me later.” 

The porter was silent a moment, but since, like all the other 
servants of the house, he had received the express command to 
obey Beethoven’s orders as unconditionally as those of the head 
of the household, he collected himself immediately and indicated 
his obedience by the inevitable “Well,” allowing himself only 
the question who the young Herr Ries was, and where he 
might be found. 


A Biographical Romance. 


175 


Ludwig gave the needed information, and the porter disap- 
peared with a “well,” in which “it shall be done,” lay con- 
cealed like the kernel in the nut. 

When young Ries entered an hour later, — it had just struck 
five, — he found Beethoven still in bed, writing busily upon 
some sheets of music paper.* After-thoughts for his composi- 
tion had occured to him, which he was hastily noting down. 

“Welcome!” he cried to his new scholar. There is much 
to do today, and you must lend me a hand. You see I am not 
ceremonious with people whom I like, but deeds are better than 
words.” 

With these words, Beethoven sprang out of bed, ran to the 
table in his night-clothes, threw everything that lay upon it on 
the floor, — notes, books, paper, violin, and piano, strings, neck- 
tie, and vest, — pushed out the ink-stand and a few sheets of 
fresh music paper, and said, “There, young man, sit down 
there and copy that quickly.” 

Ries obeyed shyly, in no little embarrassment at the strange 
ways and peculiar costume of his new teacher, but he was to 
have today still more wonderful experiences. Beethoven, lost 
in thought, and constantly humming melodies to himself, seemed 
to have no idea of dressing. With his head thrown back and 
gazing upward he ran about as he was, that is, dressed in 
nothing but his shirt, muttering and humming to himself. 
Then he went suddenly to the wash-basin, near which four 
pitchers of water stood, took one after the other and poured 
the water over his hands, without noticing that he was stand- 
ing like a duck in water, f for, of course, it ran over the wash- 
basin continually, and flowed in streams onto the expensive 
carpet. 

Young Ries, sixteen years old and shy, stood stiff with 
amazement and horror. At first, he thought he would call the 
master’s attention to the horrible devastation which he was 
creating, but when his glance fell upon the face of his great 
teacher, solemn, powerful, as if hewn out of marble, and shining 
with a certain spiritual illumination, his courage failed him, and 
he bent over his work again to conceal his blushes. 

But everything on earth has an end ; even the water in Beet- 


Historic. t Historic. Schindler, p. 260. 


176 


Beethoven : 


hoven’s ewer was at last exhausted, and so, without for an 
instant knowing what he was doing, the master put on his 
clothes, insisted that Ries must breakfast with him, and then 
came the rehearsal. 

This began at eight o’clock, in the music-hall of the Lich- 
nowsky palace, and, among the new compositions executed for 
the first time, besides the oratorio of Christ on the Mount of 
Olives, were Beethoven’s two symphonies in D major, the 
piano concert-piece in C minor, and a few of the master’s other 
newer creations. It was a very fatiguing rehearsal, and by 
half-past two o’clock all were so exhausted that they were really 
out of humor.* 

Prince Lichuowsky, who had been at the rehearsal from the 
beginning, now ran and brought a quantity of bread and but- 
ter, cold meat and wine, and urged all heartily to help them- 
selves. This effort was followed by the most brilliant results, 
and all were soon again in good condition. 

Now the prince begged that the oratorio might be rehearsed 
once more, that Beethoven’s first work of the kind might have 
a success worthy of him. So the rehearsal began again. At 
last, at six o’clock, the concert began. The success was bril- 
liant. The great master was loaded with tokens of admiration 
and applause. 

No one felt happier than Beethoven. How could he have 
imagined that this happiness was to be increased this very day? 

The concert was followed by a supper given by the prince, 
at which the seat of honor near the prince was reserved for 
Beethoven. Anyone else would have felt extremely flattered 
by this, but Beethoven received the attention as a matter of 
course, and was on the point of taking his seat between the two 
ladies when he stood transfixed with joy and amazement. 
Prince Lichnowsky was approaching with a lady to take the 
seat opposite. It was the lovely apparition from the Schön- 
brunn castle-garden, the young girl who had flitted past him, 
and whose image had since that day been enthroned in his 
heart as an ideal of beauty. 

“Countess Julie Guicciardi,” said the prince, introducing 
the young lady to his friend ; then turning to Ludwig, with a 


Ries’ own account. 


A Biographical Romance. 


177 


slight gesture, he added, “ Our excellent master, Beethoven, 
whom you already know face to face, and whose neighbor you 
are to be after tomorrow in Hetzendorf.” 

At these words a deep blush passed over the faces of Beet- 
hoven and Julie, which would have betrayed all to attentive 
eyes. The place and the surroundings permitted to Julie only 
a slight bow, to Ludwig a few courteous words. The latter 
was soon cursing silently the whole supper, with its fine dishes 
and wines, and the fearful conventional restraint imposed upon 
him by the presence of the beautiful princess. Ah, how very 
gladly would he have talked freely with his charming vis-ä-vis , 
especially as he soon perceived that she was a frank, simple 
creature in her nature and tastes. 

Her exact thought interested him immensely, her strong and 
healthy feeling which was untainted by that wretched ambi- 
tion to make a show of culture and learning with shifting and 
immature opinions. 

“Oh,” he said to himself, triumphantly, “that is nature 
once more, — genuine, pure nature, unharmed by the poison of 
coquetry.” 

Yet, with so much simplicity, what correct judgement, what 
surprisingly deep insight, with so much real poetry, what a fine 
clear mode of expression ! Ludwig was soon delighted, almost 
more by the charm which Julie’s spiritual loveliness threw 
around her than by her physical beauty ; but to his despair he 
was snatched from his seventh heaven now by being addressed 
on the right, now by a question from the left-hand neighbor, 
now by a servant, or again by the superficial conversation 
which was becoming somewhat general. 

Fortunately, he carried home with him something to comfort 
him, — the certainty that after tomorrow Julie and her mother 
were to live for a few weeks at Hetzendorf, for a fortunate 
chance had willed that she should find a residence near his. 

How glorious those days were ! Of course, Ludwig soon 
enjoyed that intimacy with mother and daughter which life in 
the same country-place admits of among good, simple people. 
This intimacy was based rather upon inward union and sympa- 
thy than upon external intercourse. Ludwig found to his 
astonishment more and more, from day to day, how surprisingly 
Julie’s soul harmonized with his, what wealth of thought 

1Z 


178 


Beethoven : 


slumbered in this girl’s mind, and how accurately she compre- 
hended everything, particularly matters connected with music. 

“ She is nothing but music and poetry,” he often said to him- 
self, when he had been with her and her mother, and he 
regarded those hours as the happiest of his life in Hetzendorf. 

If one single thing had not cast a dark shadow on these 
happy days, — but where does a mortal ever find pure and 
unalloyed happiness? 

Beethoven’s health was not the same as it had been, and for 
a long time he had not heard as well with one ear : an envious 
demon had thus checked his game.* Painful, fearfully pain- 
ful, this discovery had been to him, but perhaps it was only a 
passing cold, and would disappear with the cause which pro- 
duced it. Beethoven was by no means the man to give way 
quickly to despair, and the happy life in his little paradise at 
Hetzendorf, which, with J ulie Guicciardi near, seemed even more 
of a paradise than before, should not be disturbed by any slight 
accident. 

Today he had risen merry and gay, and his soul was as 
bright as the blue sky outside. Ries came from the city at 
six o’clock to take a lesson from his great teacher, who was now, 
however, more friend than teacher. 

But Ludwig Van Beethoven was not in the mood today for 
giving lessons. With comic gravity he said to the young man 
as he entered : — 

“Welcome, welcome, but I can’t play the school-master now. 
Sit right down to breakfast with me, young man, and then we 
will take a little walk.” 

And so they did. The road, the surrounding country, the 
sky, and the mood of the walkers were all alike filled with the 
brightness of the dawn. He did not talk much it was true. 
Beethoven was communing with his inner world and the world 
of tone; he was humming to himself, — he could never really 
sing, — and Ries, in his reverent timidity, did not venture to 
interrupt him. Not till after the country dinner, which they 
took at a little village, did scholar and teacher carry on a 
moderate conversation. 

Ries had another opportunity to cast a deep glance into his 


*His own words in his letter to Wegeler, from Vienna, June 29th, 1801. 


A Biographical Romance. 


179 


master’s beautiful character. It was as light and clear there 
that day as in the blooming, fragrant world around them. The 
conversation turned upon different distinguished musicians. 
Not the faintest trace of small jealousy could be found in this 
man’s great soul. “Händel, Cherubini, Mozart!” he cried, 
“let merit receive its crown.” 

“Which of Mozart’s works is the finest? ” asked Ries. 

“ For you, the Magic Flute is Mozart’s greatest work, for in 
that he has shown himself a true master of German music.” 

“And Don Juan?” asked young Ries, surprised. 

“ Don Juan is too Italian, and, then, our holy art should never 
give itself to the service of so scandalous a subject.” 

“Cherubini?” 

“He is, among all dramatic composers now living, the one 
whom I like best. I like, too, the style of his church music. 
If I should ever write a requiem I should remember many 
beautiful things that I have learned from him.” 

“Handel?” , 

“Handel is the master of all masters, still without an equal. 
Go, young man, and learn from him how great effects may be 
produced by small means.” * 

Ries now tried to turn the conversation upon a subject of 
great importance to him, thorough-bass. Beethoven was sud- 
denly silent. After a pause, he said, “There are two things 
separate by themselves, about which there should be no discus- 
sion, thorough-bass and religion.”! 

The first hours of the afternoon were not less pleasant than 
the morning. Even the old cheerfulness returned, so that, at 
a charming spot, Beethoven stretched himself at full length on 
the grass. Ries sat down at his feet in silent satisfaction. An 
oak, over whose proud summit at least a hundred years had 
passed, stretched its gnarly branches over them like a shelter- 
ing roof, and delicious fragrance rose from the flowers and 
plants around them. The sun shone with ‘a burning heat ; a 
dead, sultry air had gradually taken the place of the free air of 
the morning. On the distant horizon a heavy, dark cloud rose 
like a gray wall, and from time to time was heard the grumbling 
of distant thunder. 

»Beethoven’s own words on the above composers. Oulibicheff, p. 72. 
t Beethoven’s own expressions, Schindler, p. 252. 


180 


Beethoven : 


Beethoven had always loved the grand natural phenomena 
of a storm, and liked nothing better than to observe the tower- 
ing up of the clouds, their speed and power, as they came nearer, 
and the breaking out of the storm itself. Then the floods of 
heaven opened, the rain poured down in streams, the thunder 
rolled as if it would shake the earth from its foundations, and 
the lightning flashed as if the war between Zeus and the Titans 
was renewed. Then it was well with his own Titanic nature. 

But it was strange that today the black, distant mass of 
clouds affected him unpleasantly. When he saw them, a 
shadow fell upon the beautiful day, and upon the brightness of 
his soul. He remembered the warning cry, often uttered by a 
lovely creature who was so dear to him, and who long since 
rested beneath the ground. It seemed to him as if he heard 
Countess Eugenie cry, “The cloud! the black cloud!” Beet- 
hoven trembled, but he felt ashamed of his weakness, and a 
strong will subdued it. The silence of his youthful companion, 
which he had not noticed all day, grew unpleasant to him. He 
turned to him and said, leaning his head on his arm, “You are 
very still, Ries, are you not?” 

“I am silent because I am listening,” said the young man. 

“What do you hear?” asked Beethoven, astonished. 

“I am listening to the shepherd who sits with his flock yonder, 
at the edge of the wood, playing very prettily on his flute, which 
he has cut out of elder-wood.” 

Beethoven kept still and listened. “ I do not hear a sound,” 
he said at last, “ You must be mistaken.” 

“ No, indeed,” answered Ries, astonished in his turn. “ The • 
sound is very distinct indeed. Do you not see the shepherd?” 

“ Certainly, I see him,” answered Beethoven, who had now 
risen and was looking toward the wood. “ I see, too, that he 
has a flute at his mouth. Hark! Let me listen again.” 

Then there was another pause. Suddenly Beethoven’s face 
was as pale as a corpse, and Ries, too, turned pale. The young 
man, who knew that his teacher had suffered for a long time 
from a slight defect in his hearing, had guessed what a fearful 
discovery of himself his master had just made. He grew 
dizzy with horror, and said in his anxiety, almost with trem- 
bling voice : — 

“ It really seems as if our flute-player had grown dumb,” 
although he still heard the shepherd’s flute very plainly. 


A Biographical Romance. 


181 


Beethoven answered not a word. He was pale as death. 
Thick drops of cold sweat rested upon his forehead. His eyes 
stared, fixed with horror, and his features took in the stiffness 
of marble. Within, with a horrible pain, came up the cry, 
“ The cloud ! the black cloud !” Beethoven, Beethoven, man 
of tone, thou shalt hear nothing more ! thou shalt hear nothing 
more! Great God, thou art growing deaf! 

As if his head had been struck by lightning, he sprang up, 
made a sign to Hies, and started gloomily on his way home. 
Not another sound passed his lips, but something like despair 
was struggling within. It was the thought, Beethoven, Beet- 
hoven, man of tone, thou art growing deaf.* 


LAXEMBURG AND SCHÖNBRUNN. 

In those days, as in the time of Maria Theresa and Francis 
L, the imperial court at Vienna had two summer residences, 
Laxenburg and Schönbrunn, the first of which was occupied 
almost every year for a few weeks in spring and autumn, the 
latter mostly in summer. 

What a pleasant, sunny situation Laxenburg has? Like a 
child at play in its Sunday dress, it has stretched itself out on 
the broad plain near Vienna, shut in by Schneeberg and the 
Hungarian hills. Friendly villages are on every side. Beyond 
these, at that time, was a row of country-seats and castles of the 
Austrian nobility, which, giving way to industry, have long 
since disappeared. 

This old summer residence of the Hapsburgs has a charm 
wholly its own, and, in spite of the changes which Laxemburg 
has undergone in the last two centuries, especially under Fran- 
cis L, the richest historic memories are revived here. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven hated the air of the court, for his 
element was the most unconditional freedom. “ My highest 

*The whole story of the shepherd’s flute is historic. Wegeler and Ries, 
pp. 98, 99. 


182 


Beethoven : 


masters are God and art,” he often said when the conversation 
turned upon the court and court favor. He was, therefore, sadly 
troubled when the summer residence was removed from Lux- 
emburg to Schönbrunn, although he knew beforehand that this 
change was to take place, which, of course, brought the court 
near to him, and disturbed the happy solitude of his paradise. 

But there were many other things now that spoiled Hetzen- 
dorf for him. 

Julie Guicciardi, whose charming conversation and agree- 
able society had become almost indispensable to him, went back 
to the city with her mother, who removed from the neighbor- 
hood of the court for her daughter’s sake. The gap thus left 
in his life at Hetzendorf made him dejected, and this dejection 
had good ground for increase in his deafness, which was con- 
stantly growing more evident. 

Now, for the first time, his most intimate friends, like Prince 
Lichnowsky and Van Swieten, learned that for several years he 
had suffered from a defect of hearing which had until lately 
been very slight. It had been too painful to Beethoven, as a 
musician, to make this confession to anyone. Besides, the 
trouble was in the beginning only periodical, and when it gradu- 
ally grew more lasting the physician, whom he consulted with 
the utmost secrecy, promised a speedy improvement. But time 
passed on, and the improvement did not come. And, oh, when 
he, the musician,— the man who lived and moved only for tone 
and through it, — when he thought of what this might possibly 
lead to, he shuddered with horror, and it seemed to him as if he 
should go mad. 

In the midst of the career of the great artist, which had had 
such a fine beginning, a dark point stood now on the distant 
horizon, increasing in size, and coming nearer and nearer, — 
that dark point which soon became a cloud of fearful power, 
enveloping his whole life with a black pall. 

He had long seen it, and shuddered at the sight, as at some 
horrible misfortune which had power to overwhelm him. He 
concealed the weakness, as if it were a disgrace to him, and 
even the ghost of self-murder rose before his soul. * 

♦Beethoven writes in one of his letters to Wegeler, “ If I had not some- 
where read that man should not voluntarily depart from life while he can 
perform, one more good deed, I should long ago have been no more, and 
actually by my own deed. 


183 


A Biographical Romance. 

To increase the entanglements in which Beethoven’s life was 
beginning to be involved, his brother Karl encompassed him 
more and more narrowly, poured sharp and gnawing poison into 
his unguarded soul. 

This was so much the worse because two worlds had from the 
beginning presented themselves to Ludwig Van Beethoven, — 
an ideal and a real world. He was a great genius, and, conse- 
quently, impractical in all directions except his art. If he liad 
not been a genius, but a simple, practical man, he would have 
brought his ideal world into harmony with the demands of the 
actual. But this was not the case ; so in his ideal world every- 
thing took shape except that which existed in reality without. 
His great intellect, at home in the Grecian world of ideas, espe- 
cially that of Plato, longed for the realization in the state and in 
the men with whom he came in contact of Plato’s views and opin- 
ions. This accounts for his constant opposition to everything 
existing in the state, for his countless disappointments in his 
intercourse with others, and the frequent misunderstandings 
of well-disposed men who were on familiar terms with him. 

The quite natural consequence was that in the actual world, 
and in all its relations, he appeared always like a stranger. Lud- 
wig Van Beethoven, the great artist, remained for his whole 
life in a kind of childhood as far as the practical world was con- 
cerned. The hero of art, the brightest star in the musical firma- 
ment, the man of grand ideas, the Titan storming Heaven, 
needed a guide in the every-day affairs of life, and found him, 
alas, in his brother Karl. 

Why in him, and not in Lichnowsky or Van Swieten, or 
some other man? 

First, because he was bound to Karl by a deeply-rooted broth- 
erly love, which permitted no suspicion of him ; secondly, because 
Karl Van Beethoven, by his perfidious condemnation of other 
men, and by his artful slander and trickery, knew very well 
how to give the impression that he agreed with Ludwig in his 
views of the world, while, on the contrary, Beethoven’s true 
friends often repelled him from them by candor and well-meant 
opposition. 

And here we are met by the wonderful characteristic of all 
genius, which is, at the same time, its greatest weakness. 
Around its head the universe must turn, from it its laws must 


184 


Beethcroen : 


be received, from it must be learned its science, its rules of art, 
its state government, everything which can be learned from a 
human being, — its will must be positive law in all things. 

Of course, his honorable friends could not always allow this. 
To Karl’s coarser nature it was easy. Ludwig fell into the 
snare, and his brother Karl ruled him, while, at the same time, 
he plundered him pecuniarily in every way he could. 

Karl was in great need of this addition to his finances, since, 
as a man of pleasure, his expenses were always great. Then 
his pretty wife helped him bravely to spend the. money so easily 
won from his brother. But Ludwig Van Beethoven never 
once took advantage of his familiar relations with them : from 
the very beginning he had been possessed of an instinctive 
repugnance to his sister-in-law, and he found it too soon justi- 
fied by the change in the manner of life of the pretty, but very 
frivolous, woman. 

From this time forth Ludwig never put his foot in his 
brother’s house again. Karl was sly enough to turn this sad 
discovery to his advantage by playing, with sighs and tears, the 
part of the unhappy husband, whose wife had not only stained 
his honor but, by her careless extravagance, had burdened him 
with the most pressing anxieties for sustenance, in spite of his 
own economy and unresting work. 

Ludwig’s noble heart could not see his brother anxious. He, 
therefore, helped him, even at the risk of bringing starvation 
upon himself. 

How little all this tended to make his relations in Vienna 
agreeable after his return from Hetzendorf it is easy to under- 
stand, and Beethoven would have been really unhappy if the 
world of realities had not been almost lost to him. He lived 
only in his ideal world in musical activity, and in an enthusi- 
astic, platonic love for his adored Julie. 

He could see her now but seldom, for etiquette and his pro- 
fession demanded more frequent visits, but an hour in the 
society of this charming girl made him supremely happy. At 
Count Grallenberg’s invitation, he had passed this evening at her 
side. How easily he forgot the indisposition he had felt for 
several days ? Ludwig was perfectly happy, for his love-thirsty 
heart had long clung to J ulie with youthful fervor, though he 
had as yet spoken no word of love to her. 


A Biographical Romance. 185 

He loved Julie, and believed that her heart belonged to him 
also. 

This inward consciousness of happiness was enough for him. 
It was a sunbeam illuminating his ideal world ; and of the real 
world, the possibility of an actual union with the charming 
young girl who, by her property and her social position, stood 
so high above the simple though celebrated musician, — of such 
common things he had no thought at all. 

But, on the other hand, a wonderfully-intellectual and artis- 
tic life had sprung up between them since their residence in 
Vienna. It continued still, though they saw each other more 
seldom. The memory of that pleasant summer, during which 
their pure spirits had drawn so many a lofty pleasure from 
nature and from life, was sacred to them both. It was, there- 
fore, natural that they should return to this subject today with 
pleasant reminiscences. 

“ Nature and life are the two great mirrors of eternal wisdom 
and beauty,” said Beethoven, who was sitting by Julie Guicci- 
ardi in a corner of the room, gazing with rapture into her lovely 
face. “ Through interaction and mutual reflection there is no 
boundary between nature and life.” 

Here Julie looked at Beethoven with her large, clear eyes, so 
full of expression. “ I understand you,” she added. “ Neither 
is so distinct a domain in itself that a man may wander in one 
without missing the other.” 

“Yes, nature, nature ! ” repeated Beethoven, thoughtfully, — 
“to keep it safe, and to reflect it again, is the hardest of hard 
things. Most young artists think mere contact with nature is 
enough, — wandering through field and forest, through mount- 
ains and valleys, by stream and by sea, — but this is far from 
inspiring that world-reconciling spirit. On the contrary, the 
pure enjoyment of nature tends rather to blissful feeling than 
to depth, — gives, instead of clearness, indefinite and obscure 
impressions.” 

“Yes, that is actually so,” said Julie; “how often I have 
noticed this in my lady friends. Obscurity of impressions is 
very common among women. Awakening too many ideas at 
once leads to bewilderment. In the whispering of the woods 
and the roaring of the forest an undefined longing takes posses- 
sion of the heart, and leads in the end to sentimentality, which 
leaves the heart and mind barren.” 


186 


Beethoven : 


“Therefore, the artist, if he wishes to accomplish anything 
great, must have, in place of this sentimentality, true feeling 
and deep appreciation. To the man of mere sentiment all 
nature seems like a great elegy of eternal life and eternal 
death, and instead of the strength and freshness, the courage 
and pleasure, of life, only the lamentation and the helpless wail- 
ing pain of the world stirs his soul. How then can the creating 
spirit bring alleviation to the true pain of humanity ? No, no ! 
The genuine artist must stand upon the highest peaks of vision. 
With all his penetration into the depths, his dissecting and prov- 
ing, he must retain his freshness, youth, and health, — must be 
a youth in feeling, a mature man in ideas. He must, uniting 
both, become the great reconciler between nature and the soul. 
He must be the living expression of that which quickens and 
thrills humanity. For this it is necessary that he should view 
things in their inmost depths, and should be able to find eter- 
nal wisdom as well as eternal beauty in them. He must be the 
commander of the human heart whom the spirit follows where- 
ever he leads.” 

“Yes,” said Julie, with earnest, beaming eyes, “trusting 
him, admiring him, and following him, humanity in its confi- 
dence will win its own, raise itself by his lofty flights, by his 
divinity become itself grander, more divine.” 

“Julie,” cried Beethoven, and his eyes flashed with delight, 
and his features shone with a strange light, “you are the first 
woman who has w r holly understood me, the first whom I esteem, 
from my soul, as a true disciple of art.” 

Here the conversation was interrupted; but Ludwig Yan 
Beethoven had no desire after this to hear or see more. Know- 
ing well that the company would no longer leave Julie free, he 
crept softly away, bearing her sacred image in his heart. 


THE WILL. 

Months had passed away, winter had gone again, and the 
first larks were sounding their jubilees in the air, when Ludwig 
Yan Beethoven, having recovered from a severe illness, retired 


A Biographical Romance. 


187 


to the pleasant village of Heiligenstadt, about a mile and a half 
from Vienna, that he might entirely regain his health in the 
soft, fresh air. 

He had been troubled with a slight disorder, which had soon 
grown to a severe illness. The reason for the continued mel- 
ancholy, however, Hr. Schmidt and his friends sought rightly in 
the master’s increasing deafness. Alas, the great master was 
suffering alike in body and mind. What he had suffered men- 
tally at the thought of his physical ills brought him almost to 
despair. He had doctored his ear secretly for years in vain. 
Neither cold baths, nor the tepid baths of the Danube, nor Dr. 
Frank, director of medical studies at Pavia, then of the general 
hospital in Vienna, nor Vering, directing surgeon and imperial 
adviser, had been able to help him. All pills, all teas and 
strengthening medicines for the ear, had been in vain. At 
times his hearing would be a little better, at other times it 
would be very poor, and both his ears rang and roared con- 
stantly day and night. * 

“In order to give you an idea of this wonderful deafness,” 
he wrote at that time, in his despair, to Wegeler, the friend of 
his youth at Bonn, “ I tell you that at the theatre I have to 
lean forward very close to the orchestra to hear the actor. If 
I am a little way off, I do not hear the loudest tones of the 
instruments and voices. It is remarkable that in conversation 
some people never notice it. They see only what they suppose 
to be my usual absent-mindedness. Often I will scarcely hear 
a person who speaks low, — perhaps I will hear the tones, but 
not the words, and yet as soon as anyone shrieks it is unendur- 
able. What is to come of it good Heaven only knows. If I 
had any other profession it would be better, but in my profes- 
sion it is a horrible state of things. I have before now often 
cursed my existence. Plutarch led me back to resignation. 
If it is possible, I will defy my fate, although there may be 
moments of my life when I shall be the unhappiest of God’s 
creatures.” f 

Was it not, indeed, a fearful fate which was threatening 
Beethoven ? 

Go out, 0 mortal man, into God’s glorious nature. Hark ! 

* Schindler, pp. 22, 23. Beethoven’s own words to Wegeler. 
t Beethoven’s letter to Wegeler. Schindler, pp. 24, 25. 


188 


Beethoven : 


the lark is trilling in the air; how the brook babbles on so 
merrily, how the wind rustles in the branches of the trees ! the 
merry chorus of birds sends its jubilee through the forest, and 
good men sing happy songs. Hark ! how the vesper-bells send 
up their soothing and peaceful sound from the villages of the 
plain ! Listen ! Breathe in these sweet sounds and be happy. 

But now imagine that all these nerves of the ear were 
paralyzed. 

Now go out again into God’s glorious nature. You see the 
lark in the air, but its joyous trill you do not hear. Your eye 
perceives the merry leaping of the waves, the swinging and toss- 
ing of the trees as they are stirred by the wind, but no mur- 
muring, no rustling, moves your ear : you do not hear it. You 
stand in the midst of the forest, but the stillness of death makes 
it dreary to you. The evening comes, the peasant takes off his 
hat to ask alms: a horrible shudder runs over you. You know 
that the vesper-bell is ringing, but you hear it not. For you 
the kingdom of tones is locked forever. 

Now imagine that you are a musician, like Beethoven, who 
lives only in tones, whose whole life and thought are given up 
to music ; who knows nothing higher, whose profession is music ; 
who follows it with the most ardent passion; whose glorious 
achievements in the kingdom of tone mankind receives with 
rejoicing ; who is striving, with holy enthusiasm, to accomplish 
what is highest and best in the art ; who knows that he carries 
in his soul worlds of tone yet undreamed of, — imagine yourself 
to be this hero, and then dare to grasp the thought that — you 
are deaf! 

Melodies are ringing in your mind, but your ear perceives no 
sound. 

Worlds of tone are growing in your soul, but when your fin- 
ger touches the keys of your piano, you hear nothing ! When 
you seize your beloved violin and play, you hear nothing ! 
When you stand before your orchestra, your world, your all, 
you see the musicians moving, but you hear nothing ! 

Still! Soundless as the grave wherever you go, — in nat- 
ure, among men, at the instrument, in the midst of the orches- 
tra with its storm of sound ! Silent, soundless as it is around 
the eagle who hovers in solitude far above in the ether. A 
living man among the dead, or a dead man among the living. 


189 


A Biographical Romance. 

Beethoven was not yet deaf, but he heard with difficulty. 
The black cloud had not yet crushed him, but it was sinking 
down upon him more and more. Beethoven, at Heiligenstadt, 
almost succumbed to the melancholy which had taken root in his 
heart. 

How beautiful it was as the late summer light lay upon the 
world ! how brightly the dear sun smiled down from the blue 
heaven ! how the waving corn-fields, the fruit-laden trees, invited 
every heart to joy ! His was cold, despairing. The master 
gazed thoughtfully out of the window; then he turned sud- 
denly round, arranged his ink and paper, seized the pen, and 
wrote. 

He wrote a long while. The lines of his face were expres- 
sive of sad earnestness, and as he sat, silent and thoughtful, he 
looked like an antique marble statue. He wrote as follows. 
It was his will : — 

“ For my brothers, Karl and .... Beethoven. * 

“0 ye men who think or call me malignant, stubborn, or 
misanthropic, what injustice you do me ! You know not the 
secret cause of that which so appears to you. From childhood up 
my heart and mind have always been sensitive to the good-will 
of those around me. I have also been ambitious to accomplish 
great deeds. Now, consider that for several years an incur- 
able disorder has befallen me, made worse by ignorant physi- 
cians ; that I have been deceived from year to year with the 
hope of recovery, and forced, at last, to contemplate a lasting 
disorder whose cure may perhaps take years, or be impossible. 
Born with a quick, fiery temperament, appreciating the diver- 
sions of society, I was early obliged to exclude myself, and pass 
my life in solitude. If I attempted sometimes to overcome all 
difficulties, the experience of my poor hearing was doubly sad, 
and I was harshly forced back again. Yet it was not possible 
for me to say to men, ‘ Speak louder ! — bawl ! — for I am deaf ! ’ 
Ah, how could it have been possible for me to admit that weak- 

* Historic. Schindler, pp. 50-54. The whole of this document betrays tho 
condition of deep melancholy which Beethoven was in at this time. That in 
the whole deed he never writes out the name of his second brother, Johann, 
but only indicates it with stars, is striking, and another of the countless 
eccentricities which had shown themselves to Johann long ago in Vienna. 


190 


Beethoven : 


ness of a sense which ought to have been more perfect in me 
than in others, — a sense which I once possessed in a perfection 
such as few of my profession have known. Oh, I could not do 
it. Pardon me, therefore, if you have seen me draw back when 
I would gladly have mingled with you. My misfortune brings 
me double pain by causing me to be misunderstood. For me, 
refreshment in the society of my fellow-men, refined conversa- 
tion, mutual ebullitions of thought and feeling may not be. I 
must be almost wholly alone, and can allow myself to go into 
society only so far as the deepest necessity demands. I must 
live like an exile. If I go near to any company, a great anxiety 
comes over me, because I fear to be exposed to the danger of 
bringing my condition into notice. This has been the case 
during the half year which I have spent in the country. My 
wise physician almost encouraged the disposition, now natural 
to me, by the order to spare my hearing as much as possible, 
but, impelled by the desire for company, I many times suf- 
fered myself to be led astray. But what a humiliation when 
some one stood near me and heard a flute in the distance, and 
I heard nothing, or some one heard shepherds singing, and I 
heard nothing? Such occurrences almost drove me to despair, 
— a little more and I should have ended my life. My art 
alone held me back. It seemed to me impossible to leave the 
world till I had accomplished all for which I felt myself destined. 
I prolonged this life, so truly miserable, that some sudden 
change might transfer me from the best condition to the worst. 
Patience ! That is it. I must choose her for my guide. I 
have it. Now I hope my resolve will be fixed to wait till it 
pleases the inexorable Fates to break the thread. Perhaps it 
will be better, perhaps not. I am resolved. Forced so early 
to be a philosopher ! It is not easy, — for an artist, harder 
than for anyone else. Divinity, thou lookest down into my 
inmost soul ; thou knowest that love of my fellow-men and incli- 
nation to good deeds are there. 0 men, when you read this 
some day, think that you have done me injustice, and let the 
unfortunate man take comfort in finding one like him, who, in 
spite of all hindrances of nature, has yet done all in his power 
that he might be received into the ranks of artists and men of 
worth. You, my brothers, Karl and . . . ., as soon as I am 
dead, if Prof. Schmidt still lives, beg him, in my name, to 


A Biographical Romance. 


191 


describe my disease, and attach the sheet which I have written 
here to the history of my disorder, that so, at least as far as 
possible, the world may be reconciled with me after my death. 
At the same time, I here declare you both the heirs of my lit- 
tle property, if such it can be called. Share it honestly, and 
cherish and help each other. Whatever harm you have done to 
me you know has long been forgiven. You, brother Karl, I 
especially thank for the affection for me shown of late. It is 
my wish that a better and less anxious life than mine may be 
yours. Commend virtue to your children. She alone, and not 
money, can bring happiness. I speak from experience. It 
was she who uplifted me in my misery. I owe it to her and 
to my art that I have not ended my life by suicide. Farewell, 
and love each other. I thank all my friends, and especially 
Prince Lichnowsky and Prof. Schmidt. I wish Prince Lich- 
nowsky’s instruments to be kept by one of you; as soon, 
however, as they can serve any more useful purpose, sell them. 
How happy I am to serve you, even in the grave. So let 
it be done. With joy I hasten on to death. If it comes before 
I have had an opportunity to develop all my artistic talents, it 
will come too soon, in spite of my hard fate, and I could wish 
it later. Yet, even then, I shall be satisfied, for it frees me 
from unending suffering. Come when thou wilt, I will meet 
thee bravely. Farewell, and do not forget me in death. I 
have deserved to be remembered, for I have often thought of 
you in life, and striven to make you happy. May it so be.* 

Ludwig Van Beethoven. 

“Heiligenstadt, Oct. 6th, 1802.” 

Here Beethoven rose and paced up and down the room a few 
times. Then lie went to his writing-desk again, lit the lamp, 
took sealing-wax and seal, and stamped what he had written. 
When he had done this he enclosed his will, sealed the envel- 
ope, and wrote on it the following lines: — 

“ For my brothers Karl and .... to be read and executed 
after my death. 

“ Heiligenstadt, Oct. 6th, 1802. 

“ Thus, then, I take leave of you, and sadly indeed. Yes, 
the beloved hope I have hitherto cherished, of being healed to 

* Word for word. 


192 


Beethoven : 


some extent, at least, must now be given up. As tbe leaves of 
the forest have fallen and faded, so this hope has withered for 
me. Almost as I came hither I go away; even the lofty cour- 
age which inspired me in the beautiful summer day has van- 
ished. 

“ May kind Providence permit that one day of pure joy may 
yet dawn upon me. For a long time the inward echo of true 
joy has been a stranger to me. When, O God, can I feel it 
again in the temple of nature and man ? Never ? No, that 
would be too hard ! ” 

He rose again, and paced up and down the room silently, 
and with folded arms, for the rest of the evening. 


‘ SINFONIA EROICA.’ 

Two years had passed since that time when Ludwig Van 
Beethoven, in an attack of deep melancholy, had drawn up his 
will in Heiligenstadt. Not until the autumn of that year was 
his condition of mind so much improved that he could again 
take up his long-cherished plan of honoring the hero of the day, 
Napoleon Bonaparte, with a great instrumental piece. 

But this was only in better moods, for, on the whole, the fear- 
ful weight of his destiny bowed him more than ever to the 
ground. Julie Guicciardi, the bright star of his life, the glori- 
ous girl, beloved with all the strength and devotion of a great 
soul, was far away from him. She was travelling with her 
mother in Italy, and it was indefinite when she would return, if 
at all. Beethoven felt this irreparable loss to his inner life the 
more painfully because, at that time, his deafness was increas- 
ing, and estranging him from other people. But this was not 
his greatest trial in those days. He had had another horrible 
experience of humanity. He knew that revenge was creeping 
along in the dark, and drawing closer and closer about him ; the 
suspicion began to torment him that his own brothers were try- 
ing to ensnare him in deceit and intrigue. 

No wonder that a fearful struggle began in his soul, — a 


A Biographical Romance. 


193 


struggle of strong individuality with the attempts of the outside 
world to suppress him, — the last struggle of the in-dwelling 
Titanic strength to gain complete soul-liberty. But in this 
struggle, as in all in which Beethoven shared, his musical being 
had a part. Fate and study had brought the man and musi- 
cian to the extreme limit of what before existed. Over both 
a crisis was impending, to pass which victoriously something 
new and great must be brought forth. Out of the pain of bi L - 
ter experience, Beethoven, the man, was to go forth with more 
decided individuality, — Beethoven, the musician, into higher 
ideal subjects, and more perfect form. 

This crisis was not to be easily passed in either direction. The 
man and the musician needed more than two years for the task, 
and there could be nothing more interesting, psychologically, 
than the reflection of it, and the victory of the higher nature, 
in the gigantic work which Beethoven had begun afc Heiligen- 
stadt in the autumn of 1802, and finished, after many interrup- 
tions, in 1804, — his third symphony in E major, called the 
‘ Sinfonia Eroica.’ 

Beethoven had already, at Heiligenstadt, and then at Vienna, 
after his return to the residence, written several sonatas and 
quartettes which different noblemen and publishers had ordered. 
He always returned to the idea of doing homage in music to 
Napoleon Bonaparte, who was to him, at that time, the ideal 
of a republican in the spirit of Plato. Ludwig Van Beet- 
hoven really expected him to establish a republic upon the idea 
and in the spirit of the great Greek ; and, in fact, historic events 
must have strengthened this faith in a man who, like Beethoven, 
far from possessing any talent for diplomatic observation, was 
guided by his artistic nature and the models of his ideal govern- 
ment. 

When Bonaparte returned from Egypt, France was in such 
a state of confusion and demoralization that a new revolution 
seemed inevitable. The Directory had not only allowed them- 
selves to commit the most disgraceful deeds of violence against 
the allied powers, but it treated the French people also with- 
out regard to law, or even to common morality. Everything 
was in a state of excitement, the people all desired a change, so 
that almost everyone looked upon Bonaparte’s return as an 
interposition of Providence to save France from anarchy. 

J 3 


194 


Beethoven : 


No man on the broad earth counted more confidently upon 
this than Beethoven, who, himself a victorious Napoleon Bona- 
parte in the field of music, looked with greater sympathy upon 
the victor. 

The reverence, gratitude, and joyful hope with which the 
people of France, at that time, mid loud rejoicing, met the great 
general of the republic found its natural echo in Beethoven’s 
breast increased and justified by the fact that the mighty mas- 
ter felt himself in many respects allied to the mighty hero. 
Was there not dominant in the breast of each an unbounded 
individuality? Did not both possess a Titanic strength whose 
defiant manifestations, there in wider and here in narrower cir- 
cles, made their fellow-men to tremble? Were not both, like 
Alexander, looking around for worlds to conquer ? How natu- 
ral, then, was Beethoven’s sympathy for the Corsican hero, 
even without his enthusiasm for a platonic republic, of which 
he believed him to be the representative? 

Beethoven, therefore, followed the flight of the Gallic eagle 
with the greatest interest; and this flight grew bolder and 
bolder. 

Bonaparte became First Consul. Beethoven rejoiced triumph- 
antly. Now the establishment of a platonic republic, which he 
beheld as an ideal blessing to the world, could not be far distant. 
But Beethoven overlooked the fact that the French republic 
was nothing but a military monarchy, concealed under different 
forms. 

Then the news of the brilliant victory of Marengo filled the 
world. Napoleon’s arm frees Italy; his powerful mind 
already begins, unnoticed by nations and princes, to exert its 
uncontrollable influence over the destinies of the world; his 
eagle glance calls the most able men of the century to the 
places best fitted for them. His talent for organization throws 
overboard a mass of worn-out material, and introduces into the 
interior of France innumerable changes. He became consul 
for life. Beethoven rejoices. Beethoven is enthusiastic for 
him. Beethoven composes for Napoleon Bonaparte — the victor 
of Marengo, the star of his age, the first man of the century — 
that magnificent work, his glorious Third Symphony. 

It was toward the end of May, in the year 1804, that he put 
his last touch to his great master-piece, dedicated to Napoleon. 


A Biographical Romance. 


195 


Beethoven sat at his table, busily occupied, looking over 
once more his Third Symphony, which lay neatly copied before 
him. 

It was very early. The morning sun was shining pleasantly 
through the window of his room, and illuminating two peculiar 
objects which stood directly opposite the master on the writing- 
table. They were two superscriptions from a temple of Isis, 
which Ludwig had written with his own hand and afterwards 
framed. They were as follows : — 

“I am all that is, that was, that is to be; no mortal man has 
ever lifted my veil.” 

“ He is alone by himself, and to this single One all things 
owe their existence.” 

Beethoven regarded these words as the essence of the high- 
est and purest religion. For this reason these two framed 
inscriptions had stood for a long while before him on the writ- 
ing-table, and very often, as his eye rested upon them, his 
mind investigated the deep meaning which they expressed. 
This was not the case today, however, for this last revision of 
his work claimed his whole attention. Beethoven had been sit- 
ting here without stirring since five o’clock in the morning, and 
was so absorbed that he saw and heard nothing outside of his 
work. At last, he sprang up impulsively, threw aside the pen 
with which he had been making his corrections, and cried, with 
a radiant look, “Finished! God be praised, it is finished!” 

There was a triumph, a charming self-confidence, in this out- 
cry. It was not alone the happy feeling that he had completed 
a year’s work that overcame and thrilled Beethoven, it was the 
consciousness of the gigantic progress which the creator of this 
magnificent work had made since the composition of his Second 
Symphony, and, finally, the thought of being able to offer his 
favorite, his ideal, this true reflection of this, his own mental 
development. 

How grand, how powerful, this work which lay before him ! 
It was the hero of Marengo who was here honored. Uncon- 
sciously perhaps to himself, it was the development of Beet- 
hoven’s genius; it was the shining reflection of the complete 
man in the ideal sense of the word. 

The artistic meaning of the work is the forcible representa- 


Beethoven : 


196 

tion of the manifold sensations of a strong, complete individu- 
ality, to which nothing human is alien, but which contains within 
itself everything that truly belongs to humanity. This power- 
ful individuality expresses itself by striving, with energetic 
strength, for the honest manifestation of all noble passions, for 
the perfection of the whole nature. The progress toward this 
perfection is the heroic element in this artistic work. It seems 
to bring all the sensations of a rich human nature, in their rest- 
less activity, into one burning focus, — bliss and woe, pleasure 
and sorrow. Out of the ecstasy of sadness comes the triumph 
cf strength, which is wedded to love, and in which the complete 
man now triumphantly makes known to us his divinity.* 

“Yes, glorious man,” cried Beethoven, striding up and down 
the room, “ this work, successful thus far, shall be the homage 
which my heart pays to you. You will understand these tones, 
which show you in your full greatness, but which will strike 
your ear with warning and entreaty, a petition of all humanity 
that now you will open your great heart to a love which shall 
bless the world, and introduce it to a free state of justice and 
true manhood, such as Plato dreamed of, and which you have 
long since established in your heart and mind as surely as I 
have. Yes, these tones shall speak to you with all the sacred 
power of music, and you will understand them and make them 
to echo in deeds which shall bless the world.” 

Turning quickly to the writing-desk, he seized the pen, and 
wrote in large letters on the title-page. 

Above, large and prominent, stood the word ‘ Bonaparte,’ 
modestly below stood ‘Luigi Van Beethoven.’ 

At this moment the door opened, and two men entered. It 
was Prince Lichnowsky and young Bies. Both were evidently 
much excited, and Bies, with the newspaper in his hand, was 
talking loudly as he entered. Beethoven was astonished, for it 
was scarcely eight o’clock, and everyone knew that he must not 
be disturbed at that hour. 

“ Don’t be angry, dear Beethoven,” said Lichnowsky, appeas- 
ingly from the threshold, raising his hand as if in self-defence. 
“We met in the house, down stairs, for a great piece of news 
which will interest you has sent us both here at the same moment.” 


♦Richard Wagner says more than this. — Programme of the Heroic Sym- 
phony, 37th vol. of the Brendel Musical Journal. Elterlein, p. 38. 


A Biographical Romance. 


197 


‘‘What is the news? ” asked Beethoven, eagerly. 

“Bonaparte has declared himself emperor,” Bies broke out 
in the greatest excitement, and with all the passion of youth. 

It was well for him that he was not near enough to his teacher 
at this moment, for his temerity would certainly have cost him 
a box on the ear, but Beethoven only cast an annihilating 
glance at him. 

“Nonsense,” he cried; “leave your silly jokes at home.” 

But when Prince Lichnowsky confirmed the truth of the state- 
ment, he grew suddenly pale as death, and yet he did not 
believe it. 

“ No, no, no, no ! ” he cried, again and again. “ That is not 
possible. The victor of Marengo cannot do that.” 

“But here it stands in black and white,” said Kies, a little 
intimidated. 

“ In what trashy sheet?” 

“In the Allgemeine Zeitung , the organ of the Emperor and 
the Elector of Bavaria.” 

“Still I do not believe it,” cried Beethoven, moving quickly 
to and fro, looking like an excited lion. 

“Nevertheless, it is so,” interrupted Lichnowsky. “A cabi- 
net courier brought the news the day before yesterday, but it 
was kept secret till this morning.” 

Beethoven was amazed. 

“ Shall I read?” asked Ries. The master nodded gloomily. 
Kies took the paper and read. 

“ ‘ The Senate, Consul Cambaceres presiding, at the session of 
today, the 18th, Consul Lebrun and the ministers being present, 
passed a decree, giving to the First Consul the title of Emperor, 
and fixing the inheritance of the imperial office in his family. 
They resolved to proceed at once to St. Cloud, to carry to the 
Emperor the decree of the Senate, which resolution was imme- 
diately carried into execution. The procession was accom- 
panied by several corps of soldiers. Immediately on their arri- 
val, the Senate was admitted to the audience-room of the 
Emneror. Consul Cambaceres, the president, delivered to the 
First Consul the decree of the Senate, and said : — 

“ ‘ Sir, the decree which the Senate has just passed, and which 
it has hastened to deliver to your Imperial Majesty, is merely the 


198 


Beethoven : 


authentic expression of the manifest wish of the nation. This 
decree which confers upon you a title, and insures its inherit- 
ance after you by your descendants, adds nothing either to 
your glory or your power. The love and gratitude of the French 
people have for years entrusted to you the reins of government, 
and the laws of the state already conferred upon you the choice 
of a successor. The higher title now bestowed upon you is then 
only a tribute which the nation pays to its own dignity, and to 
the necessity of giving you constant evidence of a reverence and 
affection which increases daily. How could the French nation 
place a limit to its gratitude when your care for its welfare 
knows no bounds? In the remembrance of the ills it has 
suffered, when left to itself, how could it think without enthu- 
siasm of the happiness which it has experienced since Provi- 
dence permitted it to throw itself into your arms ? Its armies 
were conquered, its finances in confusion, its credit annulled. 
Factions were contending for the remnant of an old glory, 
— religious and even moral ideas were obscured. The habit 
of giving power and taking it back left the authorities without 
dignity, and had even caused every form of power to be hated. 
Your Majesty appeared. You called victory back to our flag. 
You established order and economy in the expenditures of the 
state. The nation regained confidence in its own resources, 
pacified by the wise use which you made of them ; your wisdom 
softened the rage of parties; religion saw her altars rise again. 
The idea of right and wrong awoke once more in the hearts of 
the citizens when punishment was seen to follow crime, and 
virtue to be rewarded by honorable distinction. 

“ ‘ The French nation, therefore, uses its right to confer upon 
your Imperial Majesty a power which its interest forbids it to 
use for itself. It charges your descendants with the fortunes 
of its children. These mil emulate your virtues, those will 
inherit our love and devotion. Happy the nation which, after 
so much confusion and uncertainty, finds within its borders a 
man who is worthy to allay the storm of passion, to combine 
all interests, to unite all voices. Happy the prince who holds 
his authority by the will, the confidence, and the love of the 
citizens. The Senate, in the name of the people, hereby calls 
Napoleon to be Emperor. 5 ” 


199 


A Biographical Romance. 

Until now Beethoven had listened silently, without stirring. 
His bushy eye-brows had contracted, and two deep, threatening 
furrows ran from the nose to the forehead, giving to the face a 
terribly-fierce expression. His lip was curled, his hair hung 
about his face like a lion’s mane, his eyes shot fire as he stood 
erect like an angry god. 

“What was Napoleon’s reply?” he cried with such a stento- 
rian voice that the strings of the instrument resounded, and the 
walls of the room seemed to totter. 

“ Napoleon’s reply ? ” Hies, fearing the worst, read, with 
quivering voice : — 

“ ‘The Emperor replied in the following words: — 

“‘Everything which can contribute to the welfare of the 
fatherland is bound up indissolubly with my happiness. I accept 
the title which you believe conducive to the glory of the nation. 
1 submit the law of inheritance to the sanction of the people. 
I hope that France may never regret the honor which she has 
conferred upon my lineage. At all events, my spirit will no 
longer be with my descendants when they shall cease to merit 
the love and confidence of this great nation.’ ” 

“It is enough,” cried Beethoven; and, running to the writ- 
ing-desk, he seized the glorious work which he had dedicated to 
Napoleon with an expression of unspeakable indignation, tore 
the title-page in pieces from top to bottom, Hung the parts on 
the floor, trod them contemptuously under foot, and cried with 
an oath, “ Then he is nothing but an ordinary man. Now he, 
too, will trample all human rights under foot, will serve only 
his own ambition, and will place himself higher than all others, 
— will become a tyrant.* 

Lichnowsky and Bies stood stupefied. Beethoven went up 
and down the room furious with rage; and when Bies moved 
to pick up his teacher’s master-piece, the latter cried, wildly : — 

“Do you not understand? Let the blunder lie on the 
ground like my trampled hopes. And he ran for his hat, stuck 
it on his head, -and went away, leaving room and friends behind 
him. 

♦Historic. Beethoven’s own words. Schindler, pp. 56, 57. Wegeler and 
Kies, p. 78. Oulibicheff, p. 68. ' 


200 


Beethoven : 


DONNA GIULIETTA GUICCIARDI. 

It was a long time before Beethoven recovered from the dis- 
appointment caused by Napoleon’s seizing the imperial throne; 
and only with endless pains did the united entreaties of Prince 
Lichnowsky and Ries succeed later in inducing the master to 
send into the world his glorious work under the title of ‘ Sin- 
fonia Eroica,’ and with the device underneath, Per festegiare 
il souvenire (Tun gran uomo. 

For Beethoven was a man of disappointments. Fate ham- 
mered upon his heart as upon an anvil ; and he hardened him- 
self more and more to the outside world by drawing into him- 
self more gloomily, and by turning the sharp edges of his charac- 
ter outward like thorns. It was hardly possible to get along 
with him. 

Yet Beethoven was himself the cause of many of the disap- 
pointments which befell him. It is one of the most important 
truths in life, that man must set for himself a goal to which some 
accessible path shall lead, — let the path be never so tiresome 
to climb, if only he is not shut out by some insurmountable 
obstacle, nor loses himself in the chord-land of sentimental 
ideality. 

This was Beethoven’s fault. With Plato, he liked to regard 
the highest truth, the most perfect harmony, as primal beauty. 
This was only an eternal truth called at other times by other 
names. But to believe the political ideas expressed in Plato’s 
Republic practicable in his time, and to see in Napoleon an 
enthusiast for these ideas, was the pious fanaticism of a noble 
but totally impractical man. 

The many disappointments which befell him made him, as we 
have said, more and more bitter and repelling. He felt himself 
deceived, injured, and unhappy in countless ways. Anyone 
else would perhaps have broken his heart over it. Beethoven’s 
spirit rose again in all its greatness. The highest courage is not 
the courage on the battle-field, but to look a lasting misfortune 
firmly in the face, and bear it like a man. True bravery 
meets not a few uncommon perils, but all, even -the unforeseen. 

Beethoven, met on the right and on the left by the blows of 
fate, parried them with a gloomy look ; but the boldness of the 


201 


A Biographical Romance. 

Titan grew with the struggle. Shut up within himself, clad in 
the armor of his many repulsive qualities, he stood alone, like 
an intellectual giant, exiled from the world and at enmity with 
it, struggling, suffering, and overcoming; but with him the 
result of all this conflict was music. 

Yet could not this isolated character also be amiable? 
Beethoven had gone to the theatre to dissipate his ill-humor over 
this last disappointment. He went with Countess Browne, the 
mother of the Countess Eugenie, whose memory was sacred to 
him, and who had died so young. Their common grief at the 
death of this wonderful creature had drawn them more closely 
together after her departure, and a pure friendship had sprung 
up between them, to which Beethoven was unusually respon- 
sive. He talked with no one about it, and visited the Brownes’ 
house but seldom ; but if he could do the count or countess any 
favor, he was sure to be ready to do it. 

Today, after a visit, when they had talked much about the 
departed, Beethoven had gone to the theatre with Countess 
Browne. He sat by her side in the box while they played ‘ La 
Molinara.’ At the familiar Nel enor pin non mi sento , the 
countess said with regret that she had once owned variations 
on this theme, but they were lost. Beethoven said nothing, but 
that night he wrote six variations on it, and sent them the next 
morning to the countess with the superscription, Marazioni , etc. 
Perdute par la Comtessa Browne , retr ovate par Luigi Van 
Beethoven. 

One evening, not long after, Beethoven played at Lichnow- 
sky’s his quintette for the piano and wind instruments. The 
famous oboist, Bam, from Munich, was present, and accom- 
panied Beethoven in the quintette. In the first allegro of this 
line composition a hold comes in before the theme begins 
again. When Beethoven came to it, he suddenly began to 
improvise, took the rondo for the theme, and played on and on 
to the delight of his hearers, but to the pain of his accompanists. 
Tha effect was very comical when these gentlemen, who 
expected every minute that Beethoven would introduce the 
quintette, kept putting their instruments up to their mouths 
and taking them away again. They were all discomposed, and 
Bam was greatly vexed. At last Beethoven was satisfied, and 
fell into the rondo again ; and now he had played so charmingly 


202 


Beethoven : 


that the whole company, Ram included, were beside them- 
selves. 

Why had he played so charmingly ? No one in the brilliant 
company knew, no one could know ; but the wonderful playing 
was only the reflection of a great joy which had fallen, like a 
ray of sunshine, into his heart today. Stephan Yon Breuning, 
the old friend of his youth, who, years ago, through the influ- 
ence of the archbishop, had entered the Austrian state service, 
had, a few weeks before, received the appointment of imperial 
counsellor at Vienna, and had come to the city today. This 
joyful meeting Ludwig was now celebrating in music. 

Was not the blessedness of youthful memories re-echoed in 
his playing, — the memory of his second mother, the lovely Frau 
Yon Breuning, of Eleonore, of the life at the Breunings’ house, 
of Jeanette D’ Honrath, the bright star of those days? Had not 
today given back to him a friend who loved him? Did he need 
more than such a friend and Julie’s love to make him happy? 
Beethoven soon left the company. The feelings which thrilled 
him were too sacred for the superficial gayety there. 

Happily for him, the Countess Guicciardi returned about that 
time from Italy with her daughter, so that, besides the renewal 
of the friendship with Stephan Yon Breuning, a rich fountain 
of love was flowing for the great master. No one except 
Stephan Von Breuning knew of this relation, not even her 
mother, but they understood each other, — they confessed that 
they loved and could not live apart. 

Owing to Beethoven’s eccentricity, the relation was always a 
very peculiar one. It was founded as little upon rapture as 
upon sensuality, and, although its essence was a tender, ardent 
love, it was always colored by an odd mixture of mutual 
enthusiasm for art and intellectual homage. This love was too 
ideal to have any influence in practical life ; it had, therefore, 
the more power in Beethoven’s intellectual world. From 
Julie’s charming and enlivening society, he gained new incite- 
ment, new strength. In her he found many an impulse to 
fresh creations. By a loving, invisible hand the counterpoise 
to his hard fate was offered to him, and with it that elasticity of 
mind by means of which he rose again fresh and happy the 
more circumstances endeavored to subdue him. 

In the sunshine of this love the literary and musical taste of 


203 


A Biographical Romance. 

the lovers showed itself more and more. Klopstock, whom they 
had both admired before, now gave place to Goethe. 

The smallest event is often followed by incalculable results; 
and this was true of Beethoven’s exchange of ideas with Julio 
concerning Egmont. Both, from a strictly moral standpoint, 
criticised the relation of Clärchen to Egmont, but Beethoven in 
consequence rejected the whole work as immoral, while Julio 
found its moral justification in Clarchen’s love and devotion. 
The young Countess Guicciardi had made her defence with such 
spirit and fire that Beethoven cried out at last : — 

“ Yes, woman’s love is certainly the highest thing in life to 
me. If I had a theme which treated this subject from an 
honorable stand-point, I would yield to the pressure of my 
friends, and also satisfy my own desire to write an opera.” 

“I take you at your word,” said Julie, with a gentle smile, 
rose, and went to the writing-desk. “ Do you know that libretto, 
‘Leonore, ou 1’ Amour Conjugale’? she asked, while she was 
searching for something. 

“No,” returned Beethoven. 

“ Do read it through,” continued Julie, giving the manu- 
script to the master. “It is translated and revised by the 
Begierungsrath Sonnleithner, a friend of my mother. He gave 
it to me yesterday, to look it over and criticise it, and our con- 
versation on Egmont recalled it to me, for I think it is almost 
exactly what you are looking for.” 

“ I really wish it were,” answered Beethoven. 

Julie was radiant with delight. “How glorious it would be if 
he should use it for the composition of an opera,” she cried, 
and her happy gaze rested upon her beloved. 

“But shall I be able to give satisfaction? My peculiar field 
is instrumental music.” 

.“Does he who has composed ‘Adelaide ’ say that?” 

“ Adelaide ! ” repeated Beethoven, and it seemed as if a shade 
passed over his brow, a pang through his soul. “A song is not 
an opera, and then” — he stopped. “It is like a voice from 
another world,” Beethoven went on. “ I took that poem of 
Matthison’s at that time, and the memory of a beautiful girl 
came to me involuntarily. I thought to myself how that child 
might have lived and been loved, if she had not died too early. 
It is a breath of love which was wafted to me from a grave- 
mound.” 


204 


Beethoven : 


“ Well, my friend,” Julie went on as before, “ let it be 
wafted this time from a fresh, young life. Think what deep, 
stirring emotion must be the prevailing tone of your composi- 
tion in this opera. Everything is given to you here. The 
poetry of sentiment in the enjoyment of life, in love, in the 
excited passions, in self-sacrificing devotion, in heroic ambition, 
in the highest conjugal affection.” 

“ Then, Julie,” said Beethoven, grasping the hand which was 
free, while his eyes sparkled with a wonderful light, “I shall 
thus give melodious expression to the feelings which are now 
stirring my own breast. Julie, loveliest girl, your love shall be 
the fire which feeds my enthusiasm, — but, say, will your love 
always go hand in hand with devotion? You know what diffi- 
culties are before us as soon as we go out in public. Will you 
then have courage to keep for your friend the devotion of true 
love ? ” 

“How can you doubt it?” whispered Julie, blushing deeply. 

“ Do not say ‘you/” begged Beethoven, tenderly. “Let us 
from this day forth use the familiar ‘ thou ’ between us. Wilt 
thou have tue courage to keep for thy friend the devotion of 
true love?” 

“Do not doubt it;” and, blushing more deeply, she laid her 
little head on her lover’s shoulder, and added, trembling, “you 
have my whole heart.” 

“Julie,” he cried, delighted, drawing his beloved closer to 
him, “it is the dearest, indeed the only, treasure which I possess 
on earth.” 

A sacred thrill ran over him as he kissed her gently on the 
forehead. Julie clung to him, trembling, and these two noble 
creatures passed one moment of perfect bliss. 


‘FIDELIO/ 

The summer of 1805 had brought Beethoven to Hetzendorf 
again to carry into execution, here at his beloved paradise, the 
great idea which was occupying his mind, the composition of his 
first opera, ‘Leonore.’ 


A Biographical Romance. 


205 


Of what consequence to Beethoven were the affairs of the 
world. Since he had been so fearfully disappointed in Napo- 
leon, since the last hopes of his freedom-loving soul had van- 
ished when Napoleon assumed the imperial crown, he closed 
eye and ear to the world’s doings with the stubborn defiance 
which was characteristic of him. Deep grief lay at the founda- 
tion of this defiance, but, like everything in the world which is 
not in harmony with reason and life, it brought its own severe 
punishment. 

The political events of those days were serious enough to fix 
the attention of the whole world. The incalculable power to 
which the French revolution had given birth, which it had 
developed and increased by glorious triumphs, had been thrown 
into the control of one man by the establishment of the heredi- 
tary imperial throne. No civil war, no internal party struggle, 
no contending interests were to shatter any longer the strength 
of the French nation, or turn it from the goal fixed by the 
Central Authority. Masses of material and moral forces such 
as Europe had never before seen united, not even in the Homan 
period, were subject to the Emperor Napoleon I., the invinci- 
ble, the great, as he was called for a long time, not by flattery 
alone, but by the voice of the world. If united Europe had 
succumbed to the blows of the growing republic, torn by inter- 
nal war, and exhausted by revolutionary struggle, how much 
less would it be able to oppose the heroic emperor who ruled 
with unlimited authority, and with the power of genius, even 
the firm, well-organized soldiery. Nor did it seem for a long 
time as if there was to be so hard a conflict: there seemed, in 
fact, to be no reason for it. The hated revolution had been 
suppressed by Napoleon ; ‘ freedom ’ was crushed by unlimited 
power, ‘equality,’ by the newly-established nobility; and com- 
mon interests were created between the allied kings and France 
by her return to the monarchical principle. 

But one thing was wanting to reconciliation, — legitimacy. 
Bonaparte’s throne, although surrounded by abundant authority, 
was yet a witness of the revolution, and, at least ostensibly, was 
built upon the will of the people, not upon inheritance or his- 
toric right. Add to this the pain at the losses they had suf- 
fered, and the hatred of the strong man who had dealt such 
destructive blows against the coalition. 


206 


Beethoven : 


Against the enmity of the European powers, which showed 
itself at once by unmistakable signs, Napoleon might have 
found shelter in two ways. Firstly, if, as Beethoven hoped, he 
had befriended liberal ideas, thereby making his cause the cause 
of civilization, France the central point of a system of free 
states, opposed to that ruled by autocrats, and a hot-bed of 
moral ideas opposed to the materialistic masses. Secondly, if, 
trusting to his superiority as a soldier, he had waged against 
the powers a war for life or death, in which at last either he or 
they must perish. But the powers also had two means of 
defence against him. They must either, in homage to the 
demands of the age, give to their peoples peacefully what the 
revolution had set up as its prize, but had not gained in France, 
— free their state of its most valued powers, and make public 
opinion their ally against the despot Napoleon, — or they must 
pledge themselves loyally and devotedly for the battle with 
their common enemy, and hurl their masses against him to crush 
him. They did neither of the two; but Napoleon, on his part, 
was narrow enough to choose the course of the soldier, playing 
a mad game for everything or nothing. 

That the stain of usurpation by the masses might be blotted 
out, and the character of sanctity be given to the newly-estab- 
lished majesty, the church must give her sanction to the work of 
force and artifice. 

Summoned by Napoleon, Pope Pius VII. came to Paris with 
a heavy heart to make Bonaparte “the anointed of the Lord.” 
The ceremony of coronation and anointing took place with 
unheard-of extravagance and magnificence in the church of 
Notre Dame. Festivals of all kinds called upon the people to 
rejoice at the termination of their dream of freedom. 

The influence which Napoleon had gained at that time is 
shown by the fact that besides England, Russia, Sweden, and 
the Porte, the German princes also hastened at once to acknowl- 
edge his imperial rank. Even the Emperor Franz did so. He, 
however, perceiving that the imperial crown was growing pale, 
preserved the splendor of his own house by declaring himself 
heir to the emperor of Austria, and causing himself, in this 
character, to be crowned archbishop of Vienna. 

Napoleon, emperor of the French, who liked to compare him- 
self with Charlemagne, became also king of Lombardy. On 


207 


A Biographical Romance. 

the 26th of May, 1804, at Mailand, he placed the iron crown 
of the Lombards upon his head, appointed Eugene Beauhar- 
nais, his step-son, whom he had, a short time before, elevated to 
be a French prince, to be vice-king, and impressed upon the 
legislative assembly, as upon all the authorities, the principles of 
the new government. Not a word of asking the consent of the 
people, nor was any acknowledgment desired from foreign pow- 
ers, since, according to Talleyrand’s explanation, the ocean, 
despising worthless dams, sets its own bounds. 

But all this was not enough for the insatiable man. The 
republics of Genoa and Lucca were incorporated with France, 
and the republic of Batavia was absolutely subject to the 
emperor. 

Such repeated violations of the treaty, such unbounded ambi- 
tion for increase of territory, such bold steps toward obtaining 
the chief power, naturally .called for the formation of a protect- 
ive and defensive league, and, under such a league, in May, 
1804, Sweden, Bussia, Austria, and England clasped hands. 

Not, however, till the following year, when Beethoven sat 
untroubled on his Delphic throne at Hetzendorf composing, did 
the fury of war break loose. Declarations of war followed 
from both sides, and now, quick as thought, a stream of three 
hundred thousand Frenchmen poured itself over South Ger- 
many. Eighty thousand men of Austria went out to meet them. 

So things stood at the time when Beethoven was staying at 
Hetzendorf absorbed in the composition of his ‘Leonore.’ Surely 
the political condition of Austria could not be worse for the crea- 
tion of such a work, which required, above all things, a public 
performance, and calm appreciation. Yet all Vienna was in 
the greatest excitement and anxiety, so that the artistic life of 
the capital, which had been so active, was beginning to stand 
'Still. 

Beethoven had no suspicion of it, for, out of anger at Napo- 
J eon, he did not even read a paper now, which was very unu- 
sual for him, and sternly forbade his friends to tell him any 
political news. He was, therefore, more restless, and the sharp 
edges of his character were more prominent than ever. 
Through Prince Lichnowsky’s mediation, he had free lodgings 
for a year in the Wiedner theatre, but this being near the 
court was not comfortable for him. He, therefore, hired a 


208 


Beethoven: 


room in the red house at the Alsterkaserne, where Stephan Von 
Breuning also lived. But he could not stay there through the 
beautiful summer days. He went into the country, and some 
little dispute with Breuning having arisen, he hired rooms on 
the Molker rampart in Pasqualati’s house, so that he had at that 
time no less than four places of abode. But Beethoven was 
not only unhappy in the choice of a time for the composition of 
his opera, he made a mistake in the choice of a libretto which, 
on account of the consequences, is worthy of mention. 

What thoughts are stirred in the soul of a musician by the 
composition of an opera, — what prospects, what purposes, what 
plans. Marx, in his work on Beethoven, referring to the com- 
position of the ‘Fidelio,’ says, “Now he is to create something 
out of the fullness of his musical knowledge and power. Songs 
of all kinds, choruses, the most comprehensive orchestral music, 
all varieties, from the song to the elaborate finale. Music for 
joy, for the dance, for worship, for love, for grief, for all the 
changing passions. The whole world flashes before his inward 
vision in the splendor of a new creation. Everything which 
before has only been felt, seen, and dreamed of from within is 
now to have form, life, — to become a person, an act, and to 
appear before assembled thousands as a tangible reality, with 
the full power of audible and visible existence, arousing their 
souls, purifying and exalting their sensibilities, and reflecting 
itself upon the creator of the fortunate work in the splendor of 
fame, in ease and security for a long course of deeds which 
shall be their own reward. 

What musician has not dreamed this dream ? But to how 
many it has remained only a dream. To how many has the 
result appeared quite other than their expectations ? This was 
to be Beethoven’s experience also. Before devoting one’s self 
to an undertaking like this, a careful examination is to be com- 
mended, that one may not be too much surprised at the issue. 

How do most musicians proceed to such an important under- 
taking? Let us candidly admit that, for the most part, they 
follow only a common impulse. To its realization they bring 
their talent, their skill, the most honest purpose, in a word, the 
whole musician, but nothing more. 

Now, an opera is not merely music ; it is, at the same time, 
the drama in music. It needs a scene to express its dramatic 


A Biographical Romance. 


209 


meaning. The highest model in these respects, in Beethoven’s 
time, was Glück, hut he had not been living since 1787, and was, 
besides, without any influence whatever upon Beethoven. Beet- 
hoven, indeed, never mentioned him. Even his compositions 
nowhere show this influence, while they indicate, at least, a rela- 
tionship to Bach, Haydn, Mozart, and perhaps also to Händel. 

Perhaps it is said that Beethoven needed no leader, no pro- 
totype. He, at least in his self-reliance, thought so. Would 
that he had made himself acquainted with the great dramatists, 
with Schiller and Goethe, and, above all, with Shakespeare ; or 
that he had read the ancients, even Aristotle. 

Alas, alas ! Thousands of able men enjoy the works of poets 
and artists, and let them have deep influence upon their souls, 
but scarcely one among thousands is called to the appreciation 
of the construction and character of these works. The distance, 
alas, between these poets and the opera is very wide. Even 
Glück and Mozart would not have gained success in the Ger- 
man opera of themselves, and on the first trial. They worked 
up by steps which are plainly visible from the stand-point of the 
Italian opera, Glück, under the added influence of French 
drama and poetry. 

But he stood for a long time alone on his lofty height. His 
ideas had at first but moderate followers. 

Beethoven could not attach himself to Glück, whose every 
fibre was alien to him, and yet he felt impelled to reform the 
opera. He walked by Mozart’s side, but he was less fortu- 
nate in the choice of a subject, at least in the shape which 
this took in the beginning. Sonnleithner, the Regierungsrath, 
had as we know translated the French libretto ‘Leonore, ou 
T Amour Conjugale ’ into German, given it three acts, and pre- 
served the title ‘ Leonore.’ Thus, Beethoven received the text 
for his opera, and it certainly was in harmony with his mood 
at that time. 

What was his life at that time but music and love ? Did he 
not, in Julie, bear in heart and mind the ideal of womanly perfec- 
tion ? Was there for him any higher thought than to call her 
whom he loved unspeakably his true wife ? With her exalted 
position in society may it not have been a great struggle, an 
offering of the highest powers, of unfaltering devotion ? 

How a real dramatist, a Schiller, a Shakespeare, would have 


210 


Beethoven : 


regarded this material is one question. How did Beethoven 
regard it in his present condition is quite a different one. To 
him, with his own love in his heart, his Julie in his mind, 
Leonore was the whole drama, or at least the heart of the 
drama, — Leonore, the timid dove who had become a tragic hero- 
ine, before whose angry gaze the trembling powers of evil must 
give way. How his imagination could paint J ulie ! how beau- 
tiful he could represent her as being, since their love was con- 
cealed under a different name ! 

To him, the man and artist, German throughout, Leonore 
therefore becomes the type of a German woman, loving, devoted, 
with feminine reserve, but opposing firmly the exposure of her 
husband, pressing on to his rescue through want and anxiety 
without wavering; a heroic woman in the face of the greatest 
danger, more heroic than all the men about her ; but, when the 
rescue is accomplished, stepping modestly back into the sphere 
of gentle womanhood. 

All the other persons formed a brilliant group around this 
central sun. 

But Beethoven, in his enthusiasm, overlooked one thing, — 
that the libretto with its three acts was too long for the mate- 
rial, — too much spun out, too scattering. The simplicity and 
depth of feeling in the subject interested Beethoven. He 
knew very well that in an opera too much or too specialized 
action diverts the interest from the music, but he overlooked 
one fact — that the play with all its depth of feeling was too 
quiet, too colorless, and lifeless. 

However, as we have said, Beethoven was aglow for Leonore. 
But not a soul, even his best friend, could say a word against 
it. This could have been possible only to Prince Lichnowsky, 
who alone knew anything of the subject. Others only knew in 
general that Beethoven was composing an opera at Hetzendorf. 

So the great master was sitting here now in the old, beloved 
spot, between the two oak branches, where he had composed 
his Christ on the Mount of Olives. Outside in the wide world 
nations were drawing swords against each other; he did not 
know it, he would not know it, for in his mind quite other 
thoughts were stirring, a new world of tone was forming. Out- 
side in the wide world the furies of war stood erect, ready at 
any moment to proclaim their sorrowful existence by the thun- 


211 


A Biographical Romance. 

der of cannon, by unfathomable streams of blood, by humanity’s 
cry of anguish. Beethoven saw them not, — sweet melodies 
rose from the depths of his soul, excited by the most sacred 
feelings. 

With what heavenly calm they meet the defiance of dark 
destiny ! How they dissolve the nameless pain of the despairing 
soul into gentle, sorrowful sensations ! We see the yearnings of 
love, and then the triumph of the pair, happily restored to each 
other. 

From Florestan’s sighs do not the breezes of a better world 
blow upon us? In his death-struggle are we not thrilled with 
all the horrors of the grave? What harmony of feeling, what 
richness of tone ! Then the poetic fragrance which is spread 
over the whole, so warm with life, so enchanting ! 

At last, the great work was done. The opera lay finished 
before the master. But here, also, a dark fate was hovering 
above Beethoven’s head. 

It was the overture especially which placed him in a pain- 
ful situation. That was ready, also, but the composer had no 
confidence in it himself, and, therefore, agreed that it should 
first be tried by a small orchestra at Prince Lichnowsky’s. 
There it was unanimously declared by a company of connois- 
seurs to be too easy, and too little indicative of the character of 
the work. It was, consequently, laid aside, and never came to 
light again in Beethoven’s life-time.* 

The master then prepared a second overture to the composi- 
tion, and here the eagle unfolded his boldest pinions. It will 
always remain a magnificent work of genius, f So autumn 
came on, and with it the first performance of the first opera by 
the great, and already world-renowned, Ludwig Van Beethoven. 

* Schindler, p. 58. 

t But even this was obliged to give place to a third, for the parts for the 
wind instruments were too hard, and even in the third Beethoven favored the 
instruments too much, this time the stringed instruments. So it happened 
that in 1815, when the opera appeared in two acts, and under the title 
‘ Fidelio,’ still a fourth overture was produced. The chief fault was that 
Beethoven, with the recklessness of genius, never asked whether the orches- 
tra and singers could overcome the difficulties or not. He gave free course 
to his genius, paying little attention to the instruction received years before 
from Salieri with reference to the treatment of the voice. — Schindler. Marx. 


212 


Beethoven : 


THE GRAND REHEARSAL. 

The great political drama of those days had also begun again. 
Napoleon’s army had crossed the Rhine at Strasburg and Mainz 
on the 25th and 26th of September, while Bernadotte had 
approached from Hanover on the right side of the Rhine and 
joined the Bavarians under Wrede and Deroi. 

To her own disgrace and shame, Germany again presented an 
evidence of its rented and dismembered condition, and the 
ungerman, egoistic ideas of its leaders. Now, when everything 
depended upon standing as one man, and opposing with united 
strength the stream which came rushing on from the borders of 
France, Wiirtemberg and Baden acted like Bavaria, — went 
headlong into alliance with Napoleon, and promised him four- 
teen thousand auxiliary troops for the fight against their brothers 
in Austria. 

By this swift, bold march, by the terror inspired by his army 
and his name, as well as by the wise use of the particular inter- 
ests of the petty German princes, Napoleon, in a few weeks, 
had conquered the whole of South Germany without a stroke of 
the sword. It was, of course, a small matter to him with his 
reinforced power to throw himself against Austria, whose main 
army, under General Mack, was already hurrying against the 
enemy. Hearing this news, however, he found himself forced 
to make a halt between Iller and Lech, in order to gain a strong 
position near Ulm, and wait for the Russian auxiliaries. If 
the Russian auxiliaries had arrived in time, who knows what 
a different shape the destinies of Germany would have taken? 
But they did not come, for Russia maintained her neutrality 
even at the risk of the ruin of the whole German Fatherland. 
Prussia delayed the march of the Russians for a whole month, 
but Napoleon made use of this delay with a triumphant smile, 
and, before Austria and Russia were aware of it, weak Anspach 
was beseiged, and Bonaparte’s army hastened, a hundred 
thousand strong, through the Prussians, onto the rear of the 
Austrians. 

Mack saw himself suddenly surrounded, his whole plan of 
war destroyed, and his fine army given up to be annihilated. 
Encircled by the French hosts, forced back in several bloody 


A Biographical Romance. 


213 


fights by superior strength, Mack was obliged to shut himself 
up in Ulm, and finally to capitulate with twenty-five thousand 
men. A single blow — more fearful, more crushing, even than 
at Marengo — threw Austria at the feet of the foreign emperor. 
The army of France entered Vienna in triumph. 

This took place early on the 13th of November, 1805. The 
emperor, with the court, all the nobility, the richest and most 
respectable citizens, and the army had already left the capital, 
and only the poorer population, forced by inexorable necessity, 
in spite of the cry of terror, Hannibal ante portes, remained in 
Vienna. Everybody trembled before the waves of the powerful 
French army now rolling on in might. All good Austrian 
hearts bled at the humiliating thought that their hereditary, 
beloved emperor had fled from the halls of his fathers, and 
that the hated Corsican conqueror was now entering Vienna as 
a victor. Those who were left behind awaited their fate in still 
more anxious suspense. The houses were shut, the streets, once 
so full of life, were empty, and only the lowest part of the popula- 
tion of Vienna, who had nothing to lose, but with any change 
everything to gain, were on their feet and pressing toward the 
Danube bridge, over which, since day-break, the stream of the 
incoming army had been pouring. 

Now, about ten o’clock in the morning, Prince Murat 
appeared, and passed through the city with his brilliant staff. 
Marshal Lannes and Gen. Bertrand followed him with their 
divisions, and after them came Napoleon himself with the bulk 
of the army. The powerful leader sat on his steed surrounded 
by his train, glittering with gold and with the stars of their 
order, but his dark countenance, stiff and cold as marble, grew 
yet darker when not a single shout of welcome greeted his 
entry. He felt that hate was in this silence, but he was great 
enough to meet the hate with moderation, and wise enough to 
form the resolution to win the Viennese by indulgence and 
gentleness. 

At his order, the main body of the army passed through 
Vienna; the city was guarded against plunder, the property of 
the inhabitants protected. Murat took up his quarters in Duke 
Albert’s palace, Napoleon established his in Schönbrunn. The 
corps of Marshals Soult and Davoust did not pass through till 
the next morning. 


214 


Beethoven : 


Bu f , however moderate and wise the conduct of Napoleon, 
however cautious the new commandant at Vienna, the French 
emperor’s Gen. Von Hulin, who had command of the grena- 
dier guard, could not take from the Viennese the fear, the 
anxiety, and the depressing feeling which always burdens the 
population of a conquered city. Business houses, great and 
small, suspended payment; a part of the imports of the city 
were cut off, and everything was dear. Besides, that part of the 
French army which still had their quarters in the city kep 1 the 
situation ever present to the minds of the good Viennese, while 
the constant bulletins of the victories of the hostile army 
increased the miserable condition of Austria till it was impossi- 
ble to see whither this unhallowed war might lead. Even now, 
from the crowds of troops passing through the city and quar- 
tered there, Vienna had the appearance of a French city. 

Under these circumstances, Ludwig Van Beethoven’s new 
opera was to be performed for the first time. Beethoven had 
kept very remote from the world of late. In consequence of his 
scorn of Napoleon, he did not even read the Augsburg Journal, 
which had before been daily read to him But events flew past 
him, and, though they did not lessen his scorn, they came so 
near to him, as to every individual, that he was forced to open 
his eyes and see. It also pained him that the nobility and the 
court, all Beethoven’s patrons and friends, forsook Vienna in 
the hour of peril, — yes, even Countess Guicciardi left Vienna. 

“ They are all cowards,” he cried in his anger, “ who have 
not the spirit to face the hypocrite, the treacherous republican, 
this new tyrant of the world. I know two who would have 
stayed if it had been in their power,” he added gloomily, — 
“Julie and my old Van Swieten; but she had to follow her 
mother, who has grown very strange in her conduct toward me 
of late. The ‘old papa,’ alas, rests in peace.” 

Beethoven did not even do as his friends had advised him 
when they left, namely, withdraw his opera from the stage in 
this time of general confusion and depression. The old rhap- 
sody of his youth came over him, and he pressed directly for- 
ward toward the performance of his ‘ Leonore.’ He wished to 
show the French what German music was, and to punish the 
cowardly fugitives, by not permitting them to see the first per- 
formance. 


A Biographical Romance. 


215 


Among the few members of the nobility who remained in 
Vienna during these days of anxiety and confusion was Count 
Pallhorst. Why, no one could exactly tell ; but a few thought 
they knew, — that it was merely to be present at the opera 
‘Leonore,’ he being an enthusiastic worshiper of Beethoven’s 
music. 

Silent, and absorbed in thought, Count Pallhorst ascended 
the grand stairway of his palace and entered his dressing-room, 
where his valet was waiting for him. 

“Have the gentlemen from the Vienna theatre, whom I 
invited to breakfast here today, arrived?” he asked. 

“ At your service, your lordship,” answered the valet; “ they 
are all in the drawing-room.” 

“Good,” said the count. “Make my toilet quickly.” 

He did so. When the toilet was completed, the young count 
gave a sign, and the valet withdrew. The count was alone 
again. 

“‘I do not play before such swine,’” he muttered, half 
angrily, half scornfully, to hinjself. “Now, my dear Beet- 
hoven, you must at least admit that I have a good memory for 
injuries. I failed once in my revenge : let me try now to ruin 
your opera. It is only a pity the Kapell-meister Von Seyfried 
is not to be won; but good Master Beethoven, by his rude and 
reckless behavior towards all his associates, has inclined all the 
singers and the whole orchestra to accept my plan. There is 
scarcely a single man there whom he has not offended. Of 
course, he does not mean so very much harm, but the effect is 
the same. Even the wounds inflicted through thoughtlessness 
bleed and burn. This evening is the grand rehearsal. There 
will be a plenty of new collisions, then, if we irritate the old 
wounds a little, that the victims may be sensitive to every 
ungentle touch. Let us win people by a delicious breakfast, 
and let them, with our excellent wine, swallow our excellent 
idea, to be as cold as possible in all their execution. We need 
nothing more, for, since all the patrons of the noble master of 
Vienna are away, the French gentlemen know nothing of Ger- 
man music, and the general anxiety and depression leave no 
heart for artistic enjoyment. The devil must be in it if the 
opera does not fall through ; and if there is the least sign of 
applause, my fine friend, the violinist, with his paid faction, will 


216 


Beethoven : 


see that there is such a mighty whistling and hissing that the 
piece shall be totally destroyed.” 

Here the young count rubbed his hands with an expression of 
scorn and wicked delight. Then he said again, “Just wait, — 
you shall pay dear for your ‘I do not play before such swine.’ 
We will bring down your playing and ordering to be played. 
Learn to weigh your words. From a single one, thoughtlessly 
spoken, Springs often a whole dragon’s brood.” And he 
turned and went to the drawing-room. 

The breakfast in Count Pallhorst’s palace lasted till four 
o’clock in the afternoon, the time appointed for the grand 
rehearsal of ‘ Leonore.’ The whole company then went directly 
from the riotous feast to the Vienna theatre. The general 
excitement was great, for the young count had not only enter- 
tained them in a princely manner, and had let the best of wine 
flow in richest abundance, but he had also been amiability and 
politeness itself to all the artists. More honorable and delicate 
treatment, greater appreciation of their merits, the artists had 
never known. 

Was it surprising that all were enthusiastic about the hand- 
some young nobleman, for him who, besides all this, in the pres- 
ent critical situation, was the only one who had the courage to 
give a splendid feast to the votaries of art? When the conver- 
sation turned upon Beethoven, how justly he condemned him. 
How well-grounded was his blame for the rude and reckless 
behavior with which so-called genius often treated other artists. 
How uncommonly just his remark, that the artist might punish 
and humble this pride of genius in the best and surest way by 
making his own part fail as far as he was able. The coldness 
of the whole performance would then bring the proud composer 
to the consciousness that without singers and orchestra he 
would be nothing. 

In fact, the whole company found the mode of action so 
brilliant and diplomatic that, on their way to the theatre, they 
pledged themselves to act on these principles. 

So the grand rehearsal, directed by Beethoven himself, began 
under the most unfavorable auspices. Kapell-meister Seyfried 
noticed this immediately. He therefore seated himself near 
Beethoven, already accustomed to act as mediator between him 
and the members of the stage company and the orchestra. The 


217 


A Biographical Romance. 

baton fell. The overture began. Soon, however, was heard 
Beethoven’s “ Stop ! ” 

How lame and weak the whole performance. With bad 
instruments and bad wills how often they make mistakes, and 
how Beethoven’s deafness pained him. Feeling all that each 
instrument had to say, he also wanted to make the performers 
feel it, and so spent himself in gesticulations, which made the 
orchestra falter. * 

“Wrong, wrong! ” he cried, and the baton went up. The 
stringed instruments came in a quarter of a measure too late. 
“ Da capo! — back two measures.” The orchestra began again. 
“Wrong!” thundered Beethoven again. “The same mistake, 
— once more ! ” The orchestra began once more. “ The devil ! ” 
cried the master, jumping up in a rage. “ Where have these 
gentlemen left their ears? ” 

“They have them all with them,” cried a voice from the 
orchestra, “but the kapell-meister does not hear correctly.” 

Beethoven shuddered. “Who dares say that, pray ? ” he 
cried, — but at the same moment a hand was laid gently and 
soothingly on his arm, and a well-meaning voice said: — 

“My dear friend, you are really mistaken. The stringed 
instruments came in right the last time.” 

It was Kapell-meister Seyfried who had thus spoken. Out 
of delicacy, even at the risk of his reputation, he had spoken 
only of the last time, but Beethoven, who, in his holy enthusi- 
asm for music, and his zeal to execute and direct his first 
work of the kind, had wholly forgotten his deafness for the 
moment, shook his head darkly. 

“That is nothing at all,” he said in a loud voice, and his 
face assumed a fearful expression. “You must train your 
orchestra better. There is neither precision nor technical exe- 
cution.” 

It seemed as if the whole orchestra was an ant-heap into 
which some disturber had suddenly stepped. All the members 
were in motion. A part of them sprang up, gesticulating, — 
another leaned over to the one sitting near him and asked, 
“What did he say?” — others again, furious with rage, laid 
aside their instruments and cried, “ We will not play any 


»Schindler, p. 70. 


218 


Beethoven : 


more.” In short, there was such fearful confusion that no one 
could hear his own words. Not a soul could collect himself 
amid the whirl of sounds, gestares, outcries, and movements in 
all directions. 

In vain Beethoven, his eyes flashing with anger, struck his 
desk imperatively; in vain Herr Yon Seyfried tried to calm 
the rebellious orchestra. Some one must have poured oil into 
the flame of hatred and envy which, before carefully suppressed, 
had only glimmered in the hearts of the members of the orches- 
tra, for it now rose high as heaven. Their faces glowed, their 
tongues were more fluent than ever, all the bonds of subordina- 
tion were loosed, and the tumult in the orchestra having 
attracted the singers and the chorus on the open stage, a simi- 
lar movement began there. 

Fortunately, the watchful eye of Gen. Hulin, who had been 
appointed commandant of Vienna, and who suspected plots 
everywhere, had turned his attention to the theatre and to 
today’s rehearsal. 

Scarcely had the officer on duty noticed the revolutionary 
movements of the orchestra when he immediately gave the com- 
mand to enter and ‘ order arms ’ at the door. The effect of 
the dull sound, and the clanking of the heavy French weapons, 
was magical. Like the tones from Oberon’s horn, they turned 
the whole moving mass to stone, — the noise ceased, everyone 
glided into his seat, seized his instrument, and, with profound 
silence, held it ready to execute the overture. 

“From the beginning!” sounded Beethoven’s angry voice, 
and the overture began again : this time it went finely, so that 
the master himself was satisfied. But today all the associates 
on the stage and in the orchestra were Yulcans, who ceased to 
spit fire at times, it is true, though usually only for a short 
period. One vexatious collision followed another, — now it was 
Beethoven’s habit, caused by his deafness, of listening for the 
point where each instrument came in, causing a delay at points 
where the director ought to give loose rein to all, — now the 
intentional coldness of singers and players excited the ill-will 
of the master, and gave cause for strife and dispute, — here a 
passage was too hard for the clarionet, there for the violin, — 
now Florestan, and then Leonore must have a change in their 
voices, or else they could not sing their parts. Even Pizarro 


A Biographical Romance. 


219 


cursed his leading air, which was here too high and there too 
low for him. All three cried, “ We are ruining our voices.” 

“This opera is killing us.” 

“We cannot execute that as it is written.” 

“We shall he blamed.” 

“ And disgraced.” 

Urgently entreated by Seyfried, Ludwig Van Beethoven 
gathered up all his patience with true heroism, but he did not 
yield a hair’s breadth from that which he had written. Singers 
and orchestra might cry out as they would, as often as mistakes 
were made they must begin again. It was eight o’clock, nine 
o’clock, ten o’clock, — the rehearsal was not yet finished, but 
the passion of both parties increased with the nervous irrita- 
bility which followed as a consequence of the too great strain. 

Now it was striking half past ten. The excitement had 
become a real fever. They absolutely refused to repeat the 
last act. Beethoven was furious. His eyes flashed, a storm 
was gathering upon his brow, his hair waved about his power- 
ful head like the mane of an angry lion. 

“Hirelings!” he thundered out; — “you are all hirelings! 
There is not a spark of genuine enthusiasm for what is great, 
not a dream of perfection ! ” 

Now from all sides broke out : — 

“ We will not sing, we will not play, tomorrow night,” came 
from the chorus. 

“ No, we will not play, we will not sing,” came from all 
sides. 

“We will not permit ourselves to be so treated,” cried others. 

“Let it end here,” cried the master, beside himself, throw- 
ing the baton on the floor with fearful force, — “Let it end here 
and remain yourselves ” 

The last word re-echoed amid the clatter of arms, for just 
then a French officer on duty came forward with his men, com- 
manded quiet, and put an end to the rehearsal. 

Both orders were obeyed. Beethoven, filled with rage and 
despair, rushed toward home. The rest of the crowd left the 
house, muttering and grumbling. 


220 


Beethoven : 


NEVER AGAIN. 

On the twentieth of November, 1805, after Kapell-meister 
Seyfried had taken endless pains to appease singers and orches- 
tras Ludwig Van Beethoven’s glorious opera was given for the 
first time in the Vienna theatre. Its reception was cold as ice. 
After three representations, Beethoven withdrew his work. 

That which his friends had foretold — -on which his enemies 
had counted with certainty — had been fulfilled. Only a week 
before the French had marched into Vienna, thousands from 
the higher classes, among them Lichnowsky and all Beethoven’s 
other patrons had left the city. The theatre was therefore vis- 
ited almost entirely by French officers, whose ears were more 
accustomed to the thunder of cannon than to sublime poems in 
sound, and who besides did not understand a word of the text. 
At last, Pallhorst’s policy, and Beethoven’s disregard of the 
singers and orchestra, had borne their fruit. Besides the tedi- 
ousness of the subject, the performance was cold and weak. 
Beethoven was beside himself. He knew the many great beau- 
ties which this glorious poem contained. He had created this 
work with such pure, holy enthusiasm, had put into it his whole 
self, his whole feeling, thought, and love. In it lived and 
moved his ideal of womanly virtue, love, and devotion; here 
was given to the world an evidence of his profound musical 
knowledge, his unequalled talent for composition; here stood 
before his eyes and ears one of the master-pieces of genius in 
the art of tone, and — its reception had been icy cold ; he had 
been obliged to withdraw it. 

Bitterness overpowered him ; his heart bled from a thousand 
wounds, his soul struggled with despair, — this was the reward, 
these were the fruits, of his whole life, which had been always 
devoted to art. 

It was already quite late at night. Beethoven sat alone in 
his room, with the light burning dimly on the table. Near it 
lay the letter which the master had just written, and in which, 
with a bleeding heart, he recalled his opera. 

Today, as well as on the two preceding days, when ‘ Leonore 5 
had been presented and so shamefully received, he had the door 
of his room locked. He would not, could not, speak to any 


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221 


one. Today, as on the two previous evenings, there had been 
a knock at the door : Beethoven did not hear it. The knock 
came louder. Beethoven started from his dark dream: the 
expression of his face was still darker. He kept still and blew 
out the light. 

“Ludwig,” said a gentle voice outside, “it is I, your old, 
true friend, Stephan Yon Breuning. I know that you are at 
home, so let me in. Let me, as I have done before, bear your 
sorrows with you, share your grief, talk over your affairs. Your 
heart will then he lighter.” No reply followed. 

More gloomy and motionless than ever Beethoven sat there. 
He wished to see no one, to talk with no one, to he pitied by 
no one. A pause ensued, then the voice began again : — 

“Ludwig, I implore you by our youthful friendship to open 
to me. I will not be a burden to you, but this solitary brood- 
ing worries me. Let my heart speak to yours, and you will see 
that yours will be lighter.” Another pause. 

Beethoven’s hands were clenched, not from anger, but with 
pain. The soft voice of the only friend who remained to him, 
and the memories he had awakened, drew tears to his eyes. 
But he wished to see no one, talk with no one. He was silent. 

“Well, then,” the voice said again, “it is not my way to 
intrude. I am going, but if you need a friend’s heart, you 
know where you will find it,” and his retreating steps died 
slowly away. 

Beethoven was silent, but he thought, “ He is, indeed, a good 
and noble man.” 

Stephan Yon Breuning had had one effect. He had given 
to his friend’s thoughts, at least momentarily, a new direction. 
They fell into memories of his youthful days. How happy he 
had been at the Breunings’ house. With what extreme kind- 
ness Frau Yon Breuning had cared for him. What a dear cir- 
cle surrounded him there; what beautiful emulation in the 
noblest efforts prevailed among them all. The future lay so 
bright before him then, — the palm of glory, the full wreath of 
honor, were luring him on to gigantic and yet joyful effort, 
— and today — today! He could not bear that his friends 
should hear of his condition, which was so undeserved. 

He jumped up ; then suddenly he heard the drums beating 
through all the streets. Could Yienna be in flames? Had 


222 


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the Austrians come back to the gates of the city to tear it from 
the hated enemy ? 

Beethoven lit the lamp again, but it was soon discovered that 
Gen. Hulin, the French commandant, had only sounded the 
alarm to test the readiness of the troops under him. 

Beethoven laughed out bitterly. Then these were really 
Napoleon’s troops which now held Vienna beseiged. — -the troops 
of the same Napoleon of whom the master had once been such 
an enthusiastic admirer as the founder of a platonic republic to 
bless the world, but who had so bitterly disappointed him, — the 
troops of that same Napoleon who had now become a usurper, 
greedy for territory, and a tyrant. These were the troops who 
had frightened away all his patrons and friends, by this means, 
and through their own want of taste, ruining his opera. “Yes, 
yes,” lie cried, laughing again with a bitter, fearful laugh, 
which transformed his face horribly, — “yes, yes, it must be 
so. Away with all ideals till the breast is as empty as life; 
away with all that is lofty and sublime, that flat mediocrity may 
ascend the throne of the world. Away! Oh, it is a fine word, 
this “away,” especially in my life. What has not gone away 
from me in these days? Ries, my devoted companion, my 
beloved pupil, — his youthful, fresh nature my cheer and refresh- 
ment, — has gone away to Petersburg, following his future’s call. 
The court has gone away ; all my cowardly friends, upon whom 
I counted so surely, have gone away, — Lichnowsky, Kinsky, 
Gleichenstein, Pasqualati, and Browne, — gone, gone, is Julie 
herself, the only star that has ever shone upon me in my life’s 
night. It is true she followed her mother unwillingly, but, if 
she really loved me, why did she not stay here to comfort her 
lonely, forsaken friend. Has not all happiness gone with her, 
— even my name, my honor, my fame?” 

Beethoven threw himself into the chair which stood before 
the table, and buried his head in his hands. He sat so a long 
while, lost in deep thought. When he rose, his eye fell upon 
a letter which lay upon his port-folio, and which he had not 
noticed before. He reached his hand out for it mechanically, 
and opened it. It was from his brother Karl. Beethoven read 
it, but this must also have contained something painful, for his 
brow grew darker from minute to minute. His brother Karl 
heaped him with reproaches for having hired four houses at the 


A Biographical Romance. 


223 


same time, accused him of extravagance, and demanded to be 
allowed more oversight of his domestic affairs, for it was true 
that Ludwig needed a guardian in these matters. Any one 
else would have torn the letter to pieces in anger. Beethoven 
did not do it, but the thought pained him, — his brother, too, 
was lost to him. 

No one must see this letter, so Beethoven got up to put it in 
the drawer of his cabinet where he kept his valuables. These 
were several gold tobacco-boxes, rings, and other precious things 
received from his noble patrons. He had scarcely pulled out 
the drawer when he turned pale, — two of the most beautiful 
and most costly boxes were missing — and no one knew where 
the key of this cabinet was hidden, no one knew the secret 
spring which opened that drawer except himself and — Karl. 

Karl had been here today in his brother’s absence, and, not 
finding him, had written the above-mentioned letter at his writ- 
ing-desk. 

Beethoven instantly grew pale as death. He felt his knees 
totter; he shut the door, locked the cabinet, and passed his 
hand over his forehead and eyes, as if to wipe away something. 
Then he went slowly back to the sofa and sank down powerless 
with the words, “I have lost him, also.” 

Two hours passed before Beethoven gave another sign of 
life, but in these two hours he had recovered himself again, set- 
tled accounts with his past, and cast a free and manly glance 
toward a new, great future. 

He was again the old Ludwig Van Beethoven. The fearful 
storm within had spent itself; he had come to a clear conscious- 
ness that he must go through life alone, but he had also risen 
above the doubt of himself into which the reception of his opera 
had plunged him. Cold, proud, self-reliant, the giant raised 
his head to heaven again with the firm, unchanging resolve to 
go forth in the path which he should make for himself, undis- 
turbed by all the blows of fate. 

One thing more was firmly decided, — the conviction that he 
was not created for the opera. He quietly took the pen with 
which he had last written ‘Leonore,’ threw it on the floor, and 
trod upon it with the words, “Never again.” 

An important period of his great life was ended, but, at the 
same time, the portals of a new and greater future sprang open 
for Ludwig V an Beethoven. 


224 


Beethoven : 


THE LAUREL WREATH AND CROWN OF THORNS. 

The storm of war had spent itself. Napoleon Bonaparte, the 
splendor and terror of his country, was lingering at Elba. The 
exhausted nations of Europe were drawing breath again, after 
long years of heavy trial and countless bloody battles, after the 
grand struggle for the prize of a future worthy of humanity. 
Weapons were at rest, and an assembly of emperors, kings, 
princes, and statesmen, such as the world had never seen, had 
met at Vienna to give to Europe an enduring peace, new bound- 
aries to the states, freer forms of government to the peoples, as 
the promised guarantees of their guardianship. 

The nations, especially the German nation, were looking with 
desire and hope toward this illustrious congress. Malignant 
stars seemed to rule over them. Much was heard, indeed, of 
the indescribable magnificence displayed there, of the fabulous 
generosity of the Austrian court toward its noble guests, of the 
imposing militaiy fetes, of fairy-like balls, luxurious dinners 
and suppers, masquerades and carousals, but of the debates over 
the destinies of nations, over the great interests of humanity, 
the directions of which had been given into their hands, lit- 
tle was heard from the congress. The people waited from 
month to month for the promised fulfillment of their wishes, — 
the decision was delayed. There was debate after debate, but 
nothing came to light. No wonder that the public impatience 
rose to the highest point. 

Vienna, it is true, felt this least of all, being the central 
point of all this glory. In fact, Vienna, at that time, could 
scarcely be recognized. The population seemed doubled, the stir 
and excitement surpassed all description, for Europe had brought 
hither the splendor of its courts, the leaders of its political and 
military glory, the highest culture of its society. 

All were glad to give themselves up to the luxury of Vienna. 
It was almost a single stream of pleasure, carrying everything 
and everybody with it, and inconceivable pains were taken to 
entertain, in a luxurious manner, the guests who streamed in 
from north, south, east, and west. 

More than seven hundred delegates to the congress had 
announced themselves to Prince Metternich and at the court of 


A Biographical Romance. 


225 


Vienna, and the city was flooded with more than a hundred 
thousand foreigners. All the nobility were guests of the Aus- 
trian court, so that before the end of October, it had spent 
more than fourteen million florins for its distinguished guests. * 

By the side of the diplomatic congress, therefore, was another 
congress, composed of the most elegant and intellectual women 
which Europe had to show. 

Thus, with a mass of urgent business came the temptation to 
a life of pleasure, and, added to this, was the consideration that 
most of the business affairs were difficult to disentangle. 

As was very natural, after the great battle for freedom fought 
by the German race, and the incalculable sacrifices which they 
had made, the greatest expectations of the Germans were bound 
up in the congress. In fact, Germany was in a position which 
differed from that of any other country. England, Russia, and 
Sweden stood in their old, firm shape, and used the fruits of vic- 
tory only to draw resources toward themselves, and to receive 
into that which already existed. Poland and Italy, which had 
long been without independence, and had been only deceived 
and excited by Napoleon with a show of it, followed the chances 
of conquest, by which they seemed to lose nothing essential. 
Spain, Portugal, and Denmark, though shaken, stood upon their 
old ground. The Netherlands rejoiced in a position newly won, 
Switzerland in partial renewal and security expressed on all 
sides. In Germany, on the contrary, everything was over- 
turned. 

The influence of the French rule here had been strong and 
favorable, but not even. It was very different, according to 
the time and place. All the changes of the past thirty years 
were removed from history, and things were again as before, — 
a confusion of conditions which, in their great digression, agreed 
only in this, that everywhere old relations were destroyed, new 
ones were unformed, and right, oppression, gain, and loss were 
strangely mixed. 

The interval during which the foreigner ruled had lasted too 
long, and too much which was new had grown up for men really 
to be able to say that such a period had not existed. To restore 
the old state of affairs undisturbed was, on the whole, impossi- 


To give but one example, it had a bill of 250,000 florins for poultry. 

1 5 


226 


Beethoven : 


ble. If the emperor and the empire were not restored, it was 
impossible to bring back the old imperial relations, because 
these most important conditions were wanting. Besides, so 
much that was new had been received into the new alliance, 
when the victory was not yet decided, that the rights already 
gained, as well as the actual authority, required that a careful 
balance should be made. 

But the great powers themselves did not wish the restoration 
of the old condition of things, because it was against their own 
advantage. So the pressure of Saxony, Poland, and Italy 
toward restoration ; the desire for increase of territory on the 
part of Russia, Austria, Prussia, and Bavaria ; the outcry and 
protest of the annexed states ; the question under what form Ger- 
many should continue to exist, — called out a chaos of opinions. 
There was intriguing on all sides, especially in France, where 
the union and healthy regeneration of Germany could not be 
desired. Talleyrand and Metternich were the leaders, and the 
women of France stood by their sides. Of course, serious and 
vexatious transactions followed ; it looked so dubious at times 
in the diplomatic sphere that, in order to keep the necessary 
balance, and to conceal from the nations these secret and 
unpleasant proceedings and the halting progress of their negotia- 
tions, and to draw the anxious and embittered ones nearer to 
them again, recourse was had to the flood of festivals mentioned 
above. 

The German people, all the world, were looking at the con- 
gress with deep anxiety, — Vienna and its brilliant populace 
were revelling in an intoxication of pleasure. 

Scarcely a syllable was heard of the affairs of the nations ; so 
much the more of the fairy-like feasts given by the court and 
by Prince Metternich, of the fine singer, Anna Milder, who was 
sure of making a deep impression upon everyone by her play- 
ing and singing wherever she appeared; of the wonderful 
Sophie Schroder, that sublime priestess of the dramatic art. 

This very day the Emperor of Austria had ordered a succes- 
sion of festivities for the entertainment of his noble guests. At 
noon there was a grand dinner at the court, for which the most 
elaborate feast and the most brilliant decorations were prepared. 
His Majesty, the Emperor of Austria, did the honors at one of 
the large tables, and Her Majesty, the Empress Ludowika, at 


A Biographical Romance. 


227 


the other. Here all the monarchs dined with their courtiers. 
At the other tables sat the rest of the distinguished guests. 
The interior of the dining halls was lighted by more than three 
thousand wax candles, and the whole was like a fairy garden, 
an enchanted world, such as only a poet can dream of. 

The most distinguished ladies and gentlemen were still wan- 
dering through the flowery, fragrant rooms, looking with aston- 
ishment at this splendor, although accustomed to all the mag- 
nificence in the world; the crowd of noble guests, sparkling 
with gold and jewels, were still following their monarch’s lead, 
when, suddenly, at a fitting spot, two ladies made their way out 
of this whirl, and, with a quick movement, stepped behind one 
of the flower walls. 

“ I can go no farther,” cried one of them, half aloud, sinking 
half unconscious onto a divan near her. 

“For Heaven’s sake,” whispered the other, “what is the mat- 
ter with you, Countess? you are pale as death. If Count Gal- 
lenberg should see you now, he wculd be beside himself.” 

“My husband will not see us here,” answered the beautiful 
young woman, sinking upon the divan. He is in the Archduke 
Rudolph’s train, and is, therefore, bound to him. Pray, dear 
princess, give me your vinaigrette for a moment.” 

The Princess Lobkowitz gladly rendered to her pale friend 
the service requested. But, as she was evidently recovering, 
her eyes grew weak. 

“You are weeping?” asked the princess, amazed. 

The young woman nodded. 

“ Why? Are you not, dear Julie, followed by good fortune ? 
For six months you have been the wife of the handsomest and 
most amicable gentleman at the court of Vienna. You are 
passionately loved by young Count Gallenberg, and treated 
with the greatest regard. He took you, at your wish, to Italy, 
immediately after your marriage, and now, when you returned 
ä week ago, and are everywhere received with open arms, you 
step into the midst of the glories of our congress, a bright star 
of beauty and loveliness.” 

“Ah, my dear princess,” answered the young woman, with 
a sad smile which made her look even more charming, “these 
bewildering pleasures of the congress make me unhappy. I 
wish I were still Julie Guicciardi, and lived, as before, in retire- 
ment.” 


228 


Beethoven : 


“Julie,” cried the princess, in surprise, “ it is well that your 
husband does not hear that. He would grieve himself to death.” 

Julie shook her head. 

“Are you not happy with him?” asked Princess Lobkowitz. 

“Happy?” answered the young countess, slowly. “No, I 
am not happy. He loves me, he treats me with affection, he is 
a noble man, — but ” 

“ But? Can you be so foolish?” 

“As to remain true, love? If you call that folly, yes, prin- 
cess.” 

“It is not possible, my dear. The enthusiasm of youth 
and of a poetic temperament belong to the past. You have 
renounced them, and have given your hand to Gallenberg.” 

“ Only by compulsion.” 

“ Who could compel you? ” 

“ No one in the wide world. Nothing but the conviction 
that otherwise I should break my mother’s heart. She has 
always been an excellent woman, but in the point of difference in 
the social position, she is unapproachable like all of you.” 

“ Enthusiasm has blinded my good Julie, who is otherwise so 
just on this one point. But why should we talk on a subject 
which we settled long ago. The Countess Gallenberg may 
honor her friend as truly as Julie Guicciardi.” 

“But she has forsaken him, — given him up to pain and 
despair, — forsaken him, the great man who is already so for- 
saken in his own terrible misfortune.” 

“Laying everything else aside, would not that be your mis- 
fortune also?” 

“ It would, indeed, be an unspeakable misfortune for me, but 
while I was helping him to bear his fate courageously, I should 
find a rich reward in the consciousness of duty fulfilled.” 

Here the countess shook her head impatiently. 

“ You are the same lovely enthusiast,” she said, and a sar- 
castic smile at such contracted ideas played lightly over her 
face. “My dear, do not talk of the happiness of being married 
to a man who is wholly deaf.” 

“ Oh,” cried the young countess, pressing both hands to her 
eyes, in great pain, “ that is what used to draw the tears and 
almost make me sink. Around me and all present were sound- 
ing the jubilant tones of music, and he, the sublime master of 


A Biographical Romance. 


229 


tone, heard nothing! Life is forever silent for him, — for him 
the world is soundless as the grave.” 

“ It is, certainly, a horrible thought,” said the princess. 

“ No no,” cried Julie, absorbed by her grief. “ It is a hor- 
rible reality of which no human understanding can wholly con- 
ceive. Deaf, deaf ! He, who lives only in and for music, can 
never hear a musical tone again ! ” 

“You excite yourself, Countess,” said the princess, laying 
her hand gently on that of her friend. But Julie did not hear 
her. 

“To be alone, alone,— and always alone!” she went on in a 
tone of anguish, “surrounded by a terrible, eternal silence, 
like the grave, when worlds of tone still repose in the soul ! Oh, 
it is horrible beyond all description.” 

“ Have you seen Beethoven again since your arrival? ” asked 
the princess, to give another turn to the conversation. 

“No,” answered the countess, “but I shall see him tomor- 
row, at the great festival concert which Vienna gives to wel- 
come these distinguished rulers, for which he has composed the 
cantata. I dread the moment as if I were about to appear 
before the bar at the last judgment.” 

“ Haven’t you written to him yet? ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” answered Julie, “I wrote to him the day 
after my arrival. I did not dare to write to him from Italy ; 
but when I came here and learned the full extent of his misfor- 
tune, I could keep silent no longer. I expressed my feeling 
with all the ardor of my profound reverence, told him the rea- 
sons which forced me to give my hand to Gallenberg, the inexor- 
able “No!” with which my mother opposed the alliance with 
him, as one not my equal in birth, in spite of the respect which 
she felt for Beethoven’s great genius; the equally decided oppo- 
sition of all my relatives, and especially the strong conviction 
that if I should become his wife against my mother’s will it 
would break her heart. Bowed with grief, I wrote to him can- 
didly, besought his forgiveness, begged for a few words of 
reconciliation, — they did not come, — he did not answer, for he 
hates, he despises me.” 

Here the young countess let her beautiful head fall upon her 
breast, and tears came into her eyes again. 

To the princess, who was incapable of comprehending such 


230 


Beethoven : 


a noble soul, and who judged the affections of a woman’s heart 
only by her own fugitive emotions, her friend must have seemed 
an enthusiast indeed. How many worshipers she had seen, how 
many she had dismissed after a little trifling, without even 
having been pained by the sense of guilt. Her friend’s behavior 
seemed, therefore, almost cowardly, so that she arose quickly 
and cried out — 

“ Forget him, then. We must meet the obstinacy of man 
with a double obstinacy.” 

Julie stared at her friend. “How little you understand 
Beethoven,” she said, gravely. “Oh, I feel what this silence 
means. I have wounded his noble heart too sorely. Repulsed, 
as he believes by the world, betrayed by friendship and love, 
he has made his reckoning with the world, and stands alone, a 
dead man among the living. Alone, alone, with such a noble 
heart, forever alone. Oh, the thought crushes one.” 

It was well that the monarchs, with' their glittering escort, 
returned at this moment from their walk through the orangery 
and the magic garden. The Emperor Franz might now at any 
moment give the sign for supper, and as each of the noble guests 
had his appointed place, the two ladies could not be missing 
without creating excitement. The princess would not have 
been missing on any account, dear as her friend was to her. 
She, therefore, requested her to seize the right moment when 
they might join the train again as unobserved as they had left 
it. This was, of course, very painful to the young countess, but 
conventionality commanded, — the heart must be silent and 
obey. 

This was not the hardest trial which Julie had to suffer. The 
next day was to bring her one much harder. 

It was evening, and the whole fashionable world of Vienna 
was in motion. The city magistrate of Vienna was to give a 
festival concert to welcome to the capital the distinguished 
monarchs and diplomats, guests of the Emperor of Austria. A 
more important and joyful occasion than this congress of 
emperors, kings, and princes, now in session, old Vindabona had 
never seen, and this event, so glorious for Vienna, must not 
pass without homage being paid to those from whom this glory 
proceeded, and these were especially the conquerors of Napo- 
leon. 


A Biographical Romance. 


231 


The task of rendering this homage in a worthy manner, after 
all the honors paid, and feasts already given by the emperor 
and the Austrian nobility, was a very difficult one. Something 
extraordinary was needed to correspond with all this grandeur, 
and to create this in the domain of music, there was only one 
name, the world-renowned master, Ludwig Van Beethoven. 
He was already recognized as a mighty ruler in the realm of 
tone. 

The magistrate of the capital of Austria, therefore, ordered 
a special cantata, The Glorious Moment, to be composed for 
the occasion by Dr. Weiszenbach, an Austrian poet, the music 
to be by Ludwig Van Beethoven. This cantata, with Beet- 
hoven’s symphony in A major, and the grand work by the same 
composer, Wellington’s Victory at Vittoria, were to make up 
the grand Beethoven concert, the direction of which, according 
to the express wish of the monarchs, was also to be given to the 
world-renowned master. The Mayor of Vienna had thus gained 
his object. The homage, which, in the name of the residents, 
he wished to pay to the great monarchs and diplomats, rose in 
a worthy manner above the countless mass of other festivals. 
Art came forward in all her dignity and grandeur, and her 
high-priest was the celebrated Ludwig Van Beethoven, famous 
for his great works as well as for his eccentricities. 

People had been looking forward to this great concert for 
weeks with the greatest eagerness ; now it was to be satisfied. 
The hour had struck, the carriages were rolling over the pave- 
ments toward the glittering rooms of the imperial assembly. 
Julie Guicciardi, now Countess Gallenberg, had just got into 
the carriage by her husband’s side. The young count was as 
handsome as a picture, finely dressed in the court costume, 
sparkling with the richest gold embroidery ; but, even more than 
his state dress, his elegant manners showed the gentleman ; his 
eyes sparkled more brightly than the magnificent gold embroid- 
ery when he looked with pride upon his charming wife, who sat 
at his side. But many times a dark look, like deep pain and 
restrained anger, flashed over his face, for the count knew what 
was going on in his wife’s heart. She had told him candidly 
before her marriage of her relation to Beethoven ; now, from 
her emotion, he saw that she still loved him, but he knew that 
Julie would keep the promise which she had made him at the 


232 


Beethoven : 


altar. He was man enough to preserve his outward composure 
with the self-control which belongs to the higher grade of society. 
His old determination was unshaken, by constant regard and 
loving attention to gain Julie’s esteem, and, in time, her love. 

Had she not with her keen glance read this determination in 
her husband’s heart on the journey to Italy ? She rewarded it 
with her esteem, but today she could scarcely master her feel- 
ings. Her old wound was bleeding, and bitter reproaches were 
making her tremble like a victim led in fetters to the slaughter. 

Husband and wife were now sitting side by side in silence, 
buried in their own thoughts, and were almost frightened when 
the carriage stopped. They went in among the streaming mul- 
titude. 

What magnificence was displayed in the great hall ! Here, 
today, as yesterday at Schönbrunn, the steps and vestibule were 
changed into a forest of oranges and laurel; light curtains from 
the ceiling, made of ribbons, in rose color and silver, fastened 
closely together, made a kind of magic sky. Costly silk covered 
the walls of the main hall, fastened with gold hooks to carved and 
gilded pillars. Opposite the stage for the musicians and sing- 
ers were the seats of honor for the guests, and above these, in 
the centre, a showy stage intended for the imperial court and 
the foreign sovereigns. This rose like an immense throne 
resplendent in purple and gold. Eight thousand candles 
formed a sea of light over the whole.* 

And now the toilets, rivalling each other in expense, more 
than filled the rooms, for over four thousand people crowded 
into the hall, the boxes, and the adjoining halls, wishing to see 
the monarchs and their escorts, and to hear and admire the tone- 
creations of the great Beethoven. 

The rooms adorned for the festivities, the crowds of people, 
the general, almost feverish, feeling of suspense, made a solemn 
impression. Everyone felt that an important moment had 
come. Nearly all were in a state of excitement, increased by 
the sounds from the musicians who had already assembled and 
were tuning their instruments, and many a heart beat as before 
the beginning of a battle. The Countess Gallenberg’s heart 
was almost bursting. Her beautiful pearl necklace rocked 


Count de la Garde. Congres de Vienne, vol. 1. 


A Biographical Romance. 


233 


stormily upon her bosom. Her face was as white as the satin 
of which her dress was made. 

It was fortunate that her husband had left her. His duty 
called him away to receive the foreign diplomats on the stage 
intended for them. What a glitter and flash of uniforms and 
badges of all countries and thrones ! 

Just now in the foreground were Prince Metternich and Tal- 
leyrand, the leaders in the negotiations of the congress in whose 
hands lay the fate of Europe. Beyond these brilliant uniforms, 
and state-dressed, came the flower of the ladies, glittering in 
gold and jewels. Nothing could be more brilliant or more 
imposing. 

Then came a flourish of trumpets from the orchestra. All 
present rose from their seats, the folding doors flew open, and 
the monarchs entered mid loud cries of rejoicing, all dazzling 
in their state-uniforms, and covered with badges. 

The Countess Callenberg had scarcely been able to stand so 
long. She needed all the energy of her character to control 
her senses. All were waiting now for one man, for Ludwig 
Van Beethoven, for the man whom she had loved, whom she 
loved again, and whom she had forsaken. Now she was to see 
him in his sublimity, but also in his incalculable misfortune. 
All felt this, and those who could appreciate the state of things 
felt an icy chill pass over them. A death-like stillness reigned. 

Then Beethoven entered, accompanied by Kapell-meister 
Umlauf. He was received with thundering applause. He did 
not hear it. Silently, without changing countenance, without 
casting a single glance toward the hall, the stage, or the empe- 
rors’ box, he went to his stand. All was soundless around him. 
In him lived but one thought, the best possible execution of his 
grand composition. 

But why is this ? Why does a second person stand by the 
director and behind the kapell-meister? And why are these 
two stands, contrary to etiquette, so arranged that both direct- 
ors have their backs to the audience ? 

Why? Beethoven — the great Ludwig Van Beethoven — 
no longer hears a sound. Kapell-meister Umlauf had, there- 
fore, agreed to assist him in the direction of this grand concert, 
indeed, in the cantata. Umlauf took the direction of the sing- 
ers, and Beethoven the orchestra. Besides this, at difficult 


234 


Beethoven : 


points* Umlauf was obliged to guard against confusion by beat* 
ing time firmly. The stands were turned toward the orchestra 
because no sound could penetrate Beethoven’s ear, he no longer 
knew when the instruments were to come in, by the sense of 
hearing, but by the sense of sight. He was obliged to tell by 
the movements of the violin-bows, by the fingers of the flutists, 
by the taking up and down of the trumpets, whether they had 
chosen the right measure, whether they were going on in exact 
time.* 

These things did not escape Julie Gruicciardi, nor many of 
those present. They pierced his friend’s heart like a two-edged 
sword ; they awakened in all anxiety and painful suspense. 

But Ludwig Van Beethoven was surely himself, and, 
unmoved by what was going on around him, stood with radiant 
face before his desk. Then the baton fell and the concert 
began. It seemed in an instant as if there was a stir in the 
clouds above, and heavenly melodies were coming down to 
earth. Oh, thou poor, deaf man, how is it possible that from 
thy soundless seclusion, from thy tortured heart, from thy 
ruined life, a world of quiet delights, of heavenly harmonies, 
can arise? 

Surely you cannot understand it, ye children of men. But 
neither have you seen and felt the painful struggle of the lonely 
Titan soul for the crown of life, for the happiness of a grand, 
beautiful self-reliance. You surely cannot understand it. You 
are not able even to imagine the lofty hours of consecration, 
when the inner kingdom of music opens to him to whom its eter- 
nal kingdom is forever closed; the hours when the creative 
spirit moves upon the wings of the creator’s rapture, and in the 
place of a crushed earthly love comes the blessed sense of the 
love of humanity, divinely pure, divinely common. 

If you do not understand this, listen now to the master’s glo- 
rious laments. They press the waves of sound together more 
and more strongly, they join each other in wonderful harmony, 
a rushing mountain torrent, which hurries on with tremendous 
force past sharp cliffs to its goal. 

But why does the beautiful, pale countess tremble so? 
Because she knows the meaning of these touching, plaintive 

* Schindler. Marx. Ludwig Yan Beethoven’s Life and Works. Part Seo- 
ond, p. 192. 


A Biographical Romance. 


235 


tones, because she knows that they have grown out of the mas- 
ter’s warm heart’s blood ; because she feels that what now moves 
her so deeply is the sorrowful wail over a ruined love. Now it 
is lower, now it flashes up again ; now comes the awful grasp of 
fate, the heart is crushed to atoms, and the tones of the lament 
die away. 

Julie Guicciardi’s eyes close: she leans back in her seat 
senseless. 

But the concert goes on, the symphony in A major dies away, 
louder, more thundering applause rewards the master, — he does 
not hear it. He stands turned away from the audience, immov- 
able, sunk in deep thought, listening always to the tones which 
are dying away within him like the far-away choruses of retreat- 
ing angels. 

As was so often the case with him, the real world had van- 
ished. On lonely heights, on the eagle-wings of his spirit, he 
was traversing the heavenly spheres of the ideal world. But 
the multitude who surrounded him had remained upon the earth. 
They wished to see his face, whose works they had admired, 
upon whom they were lavishing the applause of full hearts. 

But Beethoven still stood turned away from the audience, 
immovable, at his desk. 

“ Beethoven ! Beethoven ! ” sounded from a thousand voices. 

“He does not hear it, the unfortunate man,” they said here 
and there. 

“Impossible,” answered others; “he must hear this thunder- 
storm of applause.” 

But he did not hear it. Kapell-meister Umlauf was in the 
greatest embarrassment. Even the monarchs had not yet left 
their places, an evidence that they, also, expected Beethoven to 
turn round. 

“Herr Van Beethoven, do turn round. Do thank the audi- 
ence,” Umlauf now cried as loud as he could. 

The master did not hear him. 

“For Heaven’s sake,” cried Herr Von Seyfried to Kapell- 
meister Umlauf, “the audience is growing impatient. They 
misunderstand Beethoven’s delay.” And, really, a few were 
beginning to be angry, because they thought that Beethoven 
was turning his back upon them from pride. 

“ Beethoven ! Beethoven ! ” was shouted again and again, and 
there was no end of applause. 


236 


Beethoven : 


Then a happy thought occurred to Umlauf in his unbounded 
confusion. “Well, then, in Heaven’s name,” he cried, “I’ll 
turn him round,” and quickly, before the master was aware of 
it, he was seized by both the kapell-meister’s arms, and turned 
with Herculean strength, so that he faced the audience and the 
monarchs’ stage; at the same time, Umlauf pointed with uplifted 
arm toward the hall. 

This last movement of the kapell-meister had a terrible effect. 
Beethoven’s whole incalculable misfortune was unveiled before 
everyone, and in each individual of the thousands assembled 
there trembled a cry of the most profound compassion. 

Honor to the great composer, and also awe at the horrible 
fate which the great man bears so grandly, thrills every heart, 
and, as if moved by a single thought, the whole audience rises, 
the princes and princesses rise, yes, even the king and emperor.* 

Yes, thou poor, deaf man, yonder upon the stage stands the 
Czarina of Russia, the lovely Elizabeth, transported with enthu- 
siasm, with tears of pity in her eyes, and the slight inclination 
of her head, the compassionate smile about her mouth are for 
you, for your greatness, your art, your misfortune. The Empress 
of Austria, the Queen of Bavaria, all the princesses and duch- 
esses follow the Czarina’s example. They are waving their 
handkerchiefs to you as your banners of victory. 

It was a moment so great, so overwhelming, so thrilling, that 
scarcely an eye was without tears. All earthly greatness van- 
ished before the grandeur of genius and misfortune. 

Suddenly a laurel wreath was thrown from one of the boxes 
on the stage, and fell at the master’s feet, and then, as if by a 
magic touch, a hundred bouquets of flowers rained down, for 
every lady spontaneously loosened the nosegay at her breast 
and threw it as a delicate homage to the master. Then came 
another storm of applause through the rooms. This time Beet- 
hoven did not hear it, but — he saw it. 

Deeply moved by so much sympathy and appreciation, he 
made a low bow, and, as he did so, picked up the laurel-wreath. 
Ah, he knew from whom it came, he recognized her who had 
thrown it, — his dear Julie. Then she loved him still! 

His heart glowed with delight, and, casting upward a glance 


* Historic. 


A Biographical Romance. 


237 


full of unspeakable gratitude, be pressed the visible token of 
the appreciation which love bestowed upon him joyfully to his 
heart. 

Great master, upon thy head, at this moment, rest in frater- 
nal union “ the laurel wreath and the crown of thorns.” * 


THIEVES. 

It was long after day-break, and Ludwig Van Beethoven was 
still sleeping. His servant had put his head in the door cer- 
tainly ten times to see if Herr Kapell-meister did not want his 
coffee, and had drawn it back every time with a vexed expres- 
sion. 

“ Confound it ! ” he said to himself, in an angry tone, 
“how this delays me! My master is always up and at work 
so early. Yesterday’s concert must have exhausted him very 
much. I never saw him come home from work so excited. He 
certainly has slept late today, and the disagreeable part of it is 
that I shall not get to the stable in time. Very likely I shall 
lose a good customer by it” 

Paul sat down grumbling, stretched his legs out at their full 
length, and gave himself up to his own thoughts. 

“He i-3 a strange fellow, this Herr Van Beethoven,” he said 
at length, after repeated gapes. “I have been with him now 
four times; twice he sent me away, and once I ran away 
because I could not stand him any longer, and yet he took me 
again a few weeks ago, and sent his housekeeper to the devil.” 

He was silent, and gaped once more, then he went on, “A 
man can’t stay with him long. In the first place, you have to 
strain your lungs shrieking at him, and then he don’t under- 
stand you ; then you get more storms on your head than bread 
in your stomach, and, lastly, the service is tedious enough to 
kill you. If he were not so kind usually, and if he didn’t try 

* Anton Schindler; Biography of Ludwig Van Beethoven, p. 98. Barn- 
hagen Yon Ense. The Congress at Vienna. 


238 


Beethoven : 


to smooth over with money the wrong which he does to people 
in his anger, ” 

Here Paul interrupted himself with a loud laugh. “ It’s too 
queer,” he said, running his fingers through his bristly, red hair. 
“It’s too queer. Here, two months ago, Count Browne made 
him a present of a fine saddle-horse. He rode it once, but 
since I came, in his absence of mind, he has wholly forgotten 
the horse. Now, a man’s a fool if he leaves other people’s 
folly unused. I have let the horse for money every day that I 
have been in his service, and it has brought me a neat little sum. 
But that he may not be reminded of the horse, I don’t hand in 
any bill for fodder, and by the time the man comes with it I 
shall be off again.” 

At these words Paul’s face shone with pleasure, and he 
would, perhaps, have gone on with his soliloquy if his master’s 
brother, the cashier of the Austrian National Bank, had not 
entered at this moment. 

“ Is my brother still at home ? ” asked the latter, rudely, and 
with a proud air. 

“ Yes, your honor,” answered Paul, rising, and controlling his 
anger, for he hated the cashier, because his conscience told him 
that Karl’s keen eye was especially to be feared. 

“Is he at work?” pursued Herr Van Beethoven. 

“ No, he is still asleep.” 

“ Still? Why, it is after eight o’clock.” 

“I have looked after him at least ten times.” 

“You ought to have waked him.” 

“ To get a box on the ear ? ” 

“Not so bad as that.” 

“Why, sir, it would not be the first with which the kapell- 
meister has honored me.” 

“ And then balanced it with money.” 

“Yes, he, at least, sees the wrong he has done.” 

“ And throws away his money on the unworthy.” 

“I think ” 

“ It is not your place to think. Do your duty and be silent.” 

Karl Van Beethoven was about to turn and go away when 
evidently another thought came to him. It must have been a 
very important and welcome one, for it made Karl’s eyes flash 
wonderfully. 


A Biographical Romance. 


239 


“ I will wake him myself,” he said. “ Meanwhile, yon can 
bring breakfast for two, for I wall take some also.” 

With these words Karl went into his brother’s room. 

But Paul did not go. He glided gently to the door through 
which the cashier had disappeared, and, bendiug over, looked 
through the key-hole with the lowering glance of a cat on the 
track of a mouse. 

Karl had also moved with cat-like tread, although he knew 
that, with Ludwig’s deafness, the loudest step could not wake 
him. It is strange that a wicked man always creeps softly, 
like a serpent crawling through the dust. 

Karl stepped on tip-toe to his brother’s bed. He was still 
sleeping soundly, and a happy smile lay upon his face, such as 
was seldom seen when he was awake. Karl nodded with sat- 
isfaction. Then he crept softly to a cabinet, stuffed to the top 
with notes, papers, and books. 

“They must be here,” he said softly to himself. “It is true, 
they are only songs which he composed years ago in Bonn, 
before his departure for Vienna, and which he does not now 
consider worthy of his name, — but that is foolishness. If I 
only had them I could sell them, in his name, to some foreign 
musical publisher, and I pledge my word that I should have 
their weight in gold. If he makes a fuss about it when they 
are published, what matter is it? The thing can’t be changed 
then, and — I shall have the money.” 

Meanwhile, Karl had been digging and fumbling among the 
papers, but the songs he was looking for were not so easily 
found. A thick dust rose and made him cough. He looked 
anxiously around. His brother slept quietly on. At last, he 
found a yellow package of notes and papers, on which was writ- 
ten, with Ludwig’s hand, “ Bonn.” 

Karl opened it quickly; his hand trembled with eagerness. 
Suddenly, his face lighted up, and a joyful “Here they are” 
escaped his lips. At the same instant the package disappeared 
in his breast pocket. * 

Paul had seen all this very well through the key-hole, for 
the cabinet, of which we have spoken, stood against the wall 
directly opposite the door. 


* Historic. Wegeler and Ries, p. 124. 


240 


Beethoven: 


“Ah!” he said, with the look of a rogue, stroking his chin 
with satisfaction, “ Ah, my little man ! now we are safe from 
you. If you reveal the affair of the horse, I have you caught 
with the theft of the notes. I only let my master’s horse to 
keep it from getting stiff, hut you have stolen from him out- 
right.” 

He laughed triumphantly, and, seizing his hat to go and get 
the breakfast, he called out, with wicked pleasure, “ A pretty 
brother that is ! ” 

In the meantime Ludwig Van Beethoven had awaked. He 
did not yet see his brother, but when he first opened his eyes, 
and the consciousness of his miserable existence returned, a 
sharp pain pierced his soul and was reflected in his face. Ah ! 
he had had such beautiful dreams of times when he was still 
happy, when his ear was not yet closed to every sound, when 
he still had friends, and she — -she, — his Julie, 

The memory of those times, and the happy impression of the 
evening before, had blended beautifully in his dream. Now 
the beautiful dream was gone, and the cold reality lay like a 
mountain upon him. His first breath, therefore, when he woke 
was a sigh ; then he said, softly, “ Of what use is it ? I must go 
out again into the misery of every-day life, into human suffer- 
ing and necessity,” — and with these words he sat up in bed. 
Then he saw Karl standing before him. He was surprised at 
first painfully, but when his brother held out his hand to him, 
he took it with the old confidence, and pressed it lovingly. “ It 
is my brother, after all,” he added. 

Karl bent down to his ear and cried, “ I come to congratu- 
late you on your success of yesterday. Such a thing has never 
been before. That will bring fine presents from the monarchs 
and princes.” 

Ludwig shook his head. 

“Ho not believe it,” he said “they will soon forget holy art 
in their conventions and feasts. But that is nothing to me. I 
carry my reward in myself.” 

He was silent; but he cast his eyes around until they fell 
upon the laurel wreath which he had brought home yesterday 
from the theatre as a trophy, and had hung over the fine, 
English grand* piano which the Philharmonic Society of London 
had presented to him as a tribute of respect. 


A Biographical Romance. 241 

Karl held his watch before him, as a hint to him to get up. 
Ludwig sprang out of bed, horrified at his long sleep. Now 
began the well-known bathing operations which, on account of 
the daily wetting of the floor, had driven him from so many 
dwellings, because no housekeeper could endure it. While he 
was washing his hands the splashing began, and Ludwig’s 
glance rested upon Karl’s face with an unmistakable expres- 
sion of anxiety. 

“Brother,” he said at last, “you look very badly, — are you 
sick?” 

Karl shook his head. Then, bending down to Ludwig’s ear, 
he cried, “ Only I cannot get rid of that miserable cough which 
has troubled me for a year.” 

“Do not shriek so. It will hurt you,” answered Ludwig, 
pointing to a sheet of paper and a pencil, both of which lay on 
the table, that they who wished to talk with him might carry on 
their part of the conversation in writing. “Besides, it is not 
necessary for you.” Then he added, “If you speak slowly, I 
can understand quite well what you say by the movement of 
the lips.” 

“ Has your trouble increased lately ? ” 

“ Since a week ago I have been entirely deaf,” answered 
Ludwig, with a sigh of pain, and an expression of extreme 
grief. “ The one ear with which I could sometimes hear a little 
has entirely refused its service.” 

“What does your physician say to it?” 

“I must have patience.” 

“ Does he give you nothing more ? ” 

“Yes, there stands a mixture.” 

“But which you do not take.” 

“ Why should I take it? It does no good.” 

“ That is wrong. You owe it to yourself and us to save 
yourself.” 

“Well, I will take it,” said Beethoven; and he went coolly 
to the window-sill, on which the glass of medicine stood, and 
drank half of it. 

Karl went up to him, astonished, took away the glass of 
medicine, looked at the label and cried, as he bent over to his 
ear, “For Heaven’s sake, what have you done now? ” 

“Why?” asked Ludwig, amazed. 

16 


242 


Beethoven : 


“You ought to take only a table-spoonful of this every two 
hours.” 

“Well, well,” said Ludwig, with great composure, “It will 
he all the same whether I tediously take twelve hours to take 
six spoonfuls, or whether I swallow the six at once ; it is surely 
one and the same thing.” 

“Take care,” cried Karl, who felt anxious about his living 
capital, “you might kill yourself in this way.” 

“Very well,” answered Ludwig, who, meanwhile, had fin- 
ished dressing, “then I must leave the medicine alone entirely.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because I am sure to forget to take the second spoonful.” 

Karl was about to reply when Paul came in with the break- 
fast. 

Both brothers sat down to eat it together; but the cashier 
was now quite at home. He called out to his brother, in the 
tone of a bailiff, that in everything except music he acted like 
a child in leading-strings, and it was, therefore, his duty to 
follow him, his brother Karl, unconditionally in all matters. 
“ So,” here Karl Van Beethoven continued, “in your interest, I 
can no longer allow you to give up your compositions below the 
price.” 

Ludwig was amazed ; but, in spite of his grief at his brother’s 
improper conduct, a satirical expression came over his face. 

“Beally,” he said, “you will not endure it any longer?” 

“No!” 

“ Then will the cashier of the National Bank have the kind- 
ness to tell me every time what my compositions are worth ? ” 

“Why not?” answered Karl, taking a long bill out of his 
pocket and laying it before his brother. 

Ludwig glanced at it, then he flashed up and cried, “What 
can that be?” 

“ It is a price-list,” said Karl, boldly,“ which I sent for in your 
name, from a publisher in Vienna.” 

Ludwig did not read the price-list. Quickly, before his 
brother was aware of it, he had seized it, torn it in pieces, and 
thrown it at his brother’s feet. 

“Your impudence is beyond all bounds,” he cried; and the 
blood rushed to his head so that both ears began to burn. “I 
will not hear another word. I have taken pleasure in sacrific- 


A Biographical Romance. 


243 


ing myself for you and Johann, because you were my brothers. 
I make no claim to gratitude, but I may, at least, desire that 
you should respect my freedom, and not sell me as Judas did 
his Lord.” 

Karl was also beside himself with anger that Ludwig should 
have torn in pieces the price-list which he had taken so much 
trouble to obtain. His face grew even more yellow than it had 
been before, his breath grew shorter and heavier, his cheeks 
flashed with a fever-heat ; scarcely able to control his words, he 
poured upon Ludwig a flood of abuse. 

Fortunately, Ludwig heard only the first of this painful lan- 
guage, which was uttered close to his ear, then, with a glance 
of profound contempt, he turned away, and was just seizing his 
hat to take refuge in the street when he perceived that his 
brother was near choking from a convulsive cough, which 
he had brought on by anger and shrieking. 

Ludwig had no sooner seen that Karl was growing red in 
the face when, forgetting all that had gone before, he sprang 
toward his brother and tried to help him. His face expressed 
the deepest anxiety as he patted him on the back, held him 
upright, and tried, in every possible way, to stop his cough. 
At last it yielded, and now Ludwig exhausted himself with 
excuses for his violent conduct. 

“I am a very unfortunate man,” he added, “whose suffer- 
ings keep him always in an irritated condition. You must be 
indulgent to your poor brother.” 

Karl, not being able to speak, nodded affirmatively. But 
Ludwig had not yet done enough. His brother’s condition 
pained him, and he had now only one thought, — how he should 
restore him and make him happy again. He, therefore, ran to 
the cabinet, and the drawer which contained his valuables, — 
he had long ago forgotten that Karl had taken two gold snuff- 
boxes out of it, — took a valuable brilliant ring, and, handing 
it to Karl, said with a smile : — 

“Here, brother, take this ring. I know you have always 
wanted it, because it fits your finger so beautifully. It is a 
precious souvenir from Prince Louis Ferdinand, but I do not 
wear it, so I shall remember the kind giver better if I see it 
on your hand than if it is in the cabinet under lock and key.” 

Karl’s eyes beamed with joyful surprise. His falcon eye 


244 


Beethoven : 


had long since recognized the value of this jewel, and had 
begged his brother for it, but he had always refused it to him, 
because it was so dear to him as a souvenir. At last it was in 
his possession, and the joy at this thought had such an effect 
upon him that in a very few minutes he was able to talk and 
walk again. 

“It’s a real magic ring,” said Ludwig, whom this rapid recov- 
ery could not escape, with a smile which had a slight tinge of 
satire. “ May it, above all things, have the power to twine the 
old brotherly love about us as firmly as the gold ring binds 
your finger.” 

“ So may it be,” said Karl, who could not turn his eyes from 
the glistening stones. “ Now I will go, and not keep you from 
your work any longer.” 

When Karl left the room Ludwig drew a long sigh. A mix- 
ture of contrary thoughts and feelings were crossing each other 
in his mind. He loved his brother, and yet 

Ludwig sank in a chair and covered his face with his hands. 

When Karl, radiant with joy, passed through the front room 
with a proud step, he saw Paul, as he entered, draw his hand 
quickly away from his pocket as if he wished to conceal some- 
thing from his officious gaze. 

“He steals from my brother, too, so that the tears come into 
his eyes,” thought the cashier of the National Bank. Paul 
made a low bow and opened the other door, but when Karl 
Van Beethoven was outside, he said softly, “He steals music. 
A pretty brother that is ! ” 

Beethoven sat for half an hour. A stillness like that of the 
grave reigned around him. An awful grief was lacerating 
him. He was such a straightforward man that all wrong 
grieved him deeply. Alas, he had to encounter much wicked- 
ness among those nearest to him. 

What had he not suffered lately from Maelzel, the inventor of 
the musical metronome, who had been his devoted follower? A 
long while ago, Maelzel had promised the great master to make 
him an auditory machine, which he could use in his interviews 
with the Archduke Rudolph and others, when writing delayed 
the conversation. In order to incite him to make the machine, 
Beethoven wrote a piece, which he called The Battle Sym- 


A Biographical Romance. 


24a 


phony, for the panharmonica,* an instrument recently invented 
by his friend. The effect of this piece was so unexpected that 
Maelzel called upon Beethoven to arrange it for the orchestra. 
The latter had long intended to write a great battle symphony, 
and so gladly consented to Maelzel’s proposal. This was the 
origin of the Battle of Vittoria, which, on December 12, 1813, 
a year before the time of which we are speaking, was performed 
for the first time, for the benefit of a Bavarian warrior, who had 
become an invalid from injuries at the battle of Hanau. 

What did Maelzel do ? He misused, in a shameful manner, 
the confidence which Beethoven had placed in him in giving him 
this new symphony. He intended to go to England, he ordered 
this work copied for him secretly, declared the symphony his 
own property, and, as such, carried it to Munich and London 
to be performed. Beethoven, of course, protested against such 
a measure, whereupon Maelzel tried to excuse his conduct in 
Vienna by representing that Beethoven owed him 400 ducats, 
although his bill had only amounted to fifty ducats. The natu- 
ral consequence was recourse to legal proceedings. The whole 
affair had a painful effect upon Beethoven. What a mournful 
influence this deceit, this artful conduct of a friend towards him, 
must have had upon Beethoven’s character, naturally inclined 
to suspicion. More gloomy than before, he withdrew into him- 
self; already mistrustful from his infirmity, he became so to 
such a degree that intercourse with him for any length of time 
was impossible. f 

In this despair of humanity, the memory of that disgusting 
occurrence crept over his spirit like a black shadow. Many 
other bitter experiences he had yet to meet. 

Only a few days before he had followed his beloved, fatherly 
friend, the noble Prince Lichnowsky, to his last resting place, 
where reposed Swieten, and so many who had been interested 
in him. 

His heart seemed to him sometimes like a graveyard, where 
there were only sunken mounds and half-decayed crosses, — 

♦ This instrument, like the musical clock, is composed of cylinders inside, 
and is set in motion by weights. It attracted much attention, as it played 
several instruments, and excelled in the distinctness of its tones and the 
exact time of its various instruments. , T a w i 

t Historic. Schindler, pp. 91-94. Ludwig Van Beethoven s Life and Works. 
Part Second, p. 187. 


246 


Beethoven : 


Lichnowsky, Swieten, Frau Yon Breuning, — Jeanette living, 
indeed, but far from him, and lost to him. Countess Eugenie, 
Ries, had also gone away. Julie, following her fate, had become 
the wife of another. 

“ Oh, my God ! ” he cried aloud, rising, and putting both 
hands to his forehead. “ Alone ! alone ! I am wholly alone in 
this world of woe, — quite forsaken, — alone, like the eagle high 
above in the air.” 

He was silent Then -he nodded gently, and said, with a 
stifled tone, “Yes, yes, like the eagle high up in the air.” 


SPRING AGAIN. 

Months had passed away, and no change had taken place in 
Beethoven’s life. He still lived shut up in himself and in his 
creative sphere, so that the doings of the outside world scarcely 
moved him. Europe, and Vienna in particular, was still occu- 
pied with the congress, but the congress was too little occupied 
with Europe and the welfare of its states and peoples. Now, 
as before, nations were quarreling in secret about lands and 
people. The rulers were bent only on increasing their own 
territory and strengthening their own power. Each one of the 
statesmen assembled there was intriguing in his own interest 
and that of the prince whom he served. This unhappy pro- 
ceeding, this general want of harmony, was concealed under 
the cloak of gayety, manifesting itself in festivals of all kinds, 
and a whirl of pleasures such as the history of no second period 
can show. 

All friends of the fatherland, all thinking and far-seeing 
people, turned away with pain and displeasure from this sort of 
life, no one more decidedly than Ludwig Van Beethoven, who 
had the whole matter so near at heart. Beethoven met the 
prominent men of the congress only at the reunions of the 
artistic Russian Ambassador, Prince Rasumowsky, and in the 
salons of the Archduke Rudolph. Even here it was the mon- 
archs themselves who sought him out, and gladly recognized him 


A Biographical Romance. 


247 


as monarch in the realm of tone. At the head of his worship- 
ers stood the Emperor of Kussia, whose kindness and amiability 
had a refreshing influence upon the master. What made Beet- 
hoven seem great here was his manner of receiving these atten- 
tions. He was by no means insensible to them, but they did 
not affect his conduct in the least. He was everywhere, and 
always Ludwig Van Beethoven.* This is illustrated by the 
characteristic expression which he used to Prince Louis Ferdi- 
nand with reference to his musical ability, “ You do not play 
like a prince or a king, but like a good pianist.” f 

He knew very well how to keep his position in this society; 
and the great indulgence shown him proves most strikingly 
how well they knew how to appreciate his genius. 

At the time, for example, when Prince Louis Ferdinand was 
in Vienna, an old countess gave a little musical entertainment 
to which, of course, Beethoven was invited. After it was over, 
and they went out to supper, the master cast a hasty glance at 
the table, and saw that places were provided only for the 
nobility and none for him. His eagle eye had scarcely per- 
ceived this than he uttered a few bitter words, took his hat and 
left. 

A few days later Prince Louis Ferdinand gave a dinner, to 
which a part of this company, and of course Beethoven and the 
old countess, were invited. When they sat down to the table, 
the countess was placed on one side, Beethoven on the other 
side, of the Prince, a distinction which at once reconciled him, 
and which he always remembered with pride. 

It was, of course, natural that behav'or so original, such 
unusual distinction, the success with which his creations made 
their own way in the world, should awake u much jealousy and 
bring Beethoven many enemies. Within and without the 
country, on all sides, especially after his symphony in A major 
had been repeatedly executed and spread abroad in the world, 
it was said, “ Now the extravagance of thlo genius has reached 
its ne plus ultra, and Beethoven is fully ripe for the mad- 
house.” 

The master only smiled at such criticisms, and quietly fol- 
lowed the flight of his genius. Meeting Al the blows of fate, 

* Schindler, p. 98. Marx; Ludwig Yan Bee thovei Part Second, p. 158. 
t Wegeler and Ries, p. 110. 


248 


Beethoven : 


which fell so heavily upon him, with the unyielding strength of 
a great soul, the unwearied man now composed his Scotch 
Songs. The youthful glow of his heart was by no means 
extinguished. Love and art were still his inspiration. In fact, 
the old beautiful love was still glowing, though long concealed 
by the ashes of ruined hopes. Ludwig Yan Beethoven’s heart 
still beat for Julie Guicciardi, though his suspicious, irritable 
nature despised the Countess Gallenberg. She did not have 
the courage to stand up for her love with the decision and 
strength of a great soul was his constant refrain. His views 
of love, devotion, were so high, so ideal, that they could never 
suit themselves to practical life. What to him, the man of 
genius, full, self-reliant, were the restraints of conventionality? 
He did not consider that the hindrances which seemed mole- 
hills to him, to Julie, in her position, were Alpine chains. 
Because he still loved Julie, instead of hating her as he per- 
suaded himself he ought, he hated this love and tried to sup- 
press it. This was why Julie’s letter, written after her return 
from Italy, remained unanswered; this was why he even sup- 
pressed the favorable feelings produced by the laurel wreath 
thrown by Julie’s hand. True, her beautiful, pale face, 
flooded with tears, had said to him then, “She loves you still; 
yes, she is suffering, a victim to external circumstances.” 

The thought she was too weak to conquer the prejudices of 
her old rank, too weak to renounce a brilliant future for his 
sake, made his heart grow cold again. 

So foolish man often is. We ridicule the nonsense of Indian 
fakir and Christian anchorites who do penance by self-inflicted 
torture of their bodies, but we do not think of the spiritual rack 
to which our souls are often bound by prejudices, passions, and 
distorted views of life. 

Must not this everlasting conflict between flaming and sub- 
dued love, between longing for the old happy relations and the 
oppressive sense of the present, have been for Beethoven a per- 
petual fountain of trouble? 

The approaching spring was to relieve him of a part of this 
burden by an excursion into God’s wide, beautiful world. 
Many other unpleasant things could be shaken off in part there. 
His brother’s guardianship, which had now become a perfect 
system of plunder, and the unbearable trouble of household 


A Biographical Romance. 249 

cares, which, with the constant changing of servants, might have 
brought the strongest spirit to despair. 

In the diary, written by his own hand, we find : — 


“Jan. 31st. Dismissed the housekeeper. 

“Feb. 15th. The cook came. 

“ March 8th. Dismissed the cook after two weeks. 

“ 22d. New housekeeper came. 

“ April 1st. Dismissed the same. 

“ 17th. The cook came. 

“ May 16th. Dismissed the cook. 

The cook left. 

The woman came. 

The cook came. 

The cook ran away. 

The woman from Unter-Döbling came. 


16th. 

19th. 

“ 30th. 

“July 1st. 

“ 28th. 

“ 30th. 

“Four hard days, 
at Lerchenfels. 

“ On the 28th of the month got rid of the woman. 
“ Sept. 6th. The girl came. 

“ Dec. 12th. The girl left. 

“ 18th. Dismissed the cook. 

“ 22d. The new chamber-maid came.”* 


Aug. 10th, 11th, 12th, and 13th, dined 


Was there not in such domestic confusion a hell of care, 
vexations, and torments which might have driven the calmest 
man to distraction; 

Yet Ludwig’s cup was not quite full. He saw his brother 
Karl evidently fading away with consumption ; saw his beauti- 
ful, but thoughtless, wife throwing herself with less and less 
restraint into frivolity; saw their child, a promising, lovely boy, 
led on to more and more certain ruin. 

How often the poor man, when in dark hours he thought 
over this complication of misfortunes, cried out, “ Oh, my God, 
wilt thou not, for a short time, take away from my heart all 
this distress of earth?” But it could not be. Even when he 
hoped to be free, when he thought he would have money enough 
to take a longer journey, perhaps to Bonn, to visit his dear old 


Historic. 


250 


Beethoven: 


friend Wegeier, or even to England, his brothers would come 
again and take away what he had, and he could not see poor, 
suffering Karl perish in want, not to consider Johann, who had 
sold his drug store and bought a country-seat. 

Ludwig was often deprived even of the necessaries of life, 
and wrote, as he expressed it, ‘Notes in Need ( Noten in 
Nothen).' > 

Karl lived gaily in spite of his suffering. Brother Johann, 
in recent possession of a country-seat, bought a carriage and 
horses; and Ludwig Van Beethoven, before whose works of 
genius the world was bowing, was lonely, forsaken, deaf, — and 
writing ‘Notes in Need.’ 

How many would have given up. With Beethoven, in such 
situations, the fact was precisely the contrary. The energy of 
his will redoubled his strength and lightened all his privations 
and sacrifices. It found constant nourishment in his inspired 
ideas. But there were moments which had power to press from 
even this mighty spirit in its excess of suffering the outcry of 
despair. Such a moment was now passing. 

He had just received some money from Thompson in Edin- 
burgh, for whose musical publishing house he had written his 
Scotch Songs. Spring was decking the earth with its beauty, 
the weather was wonderfully fine, and Beethoven’s longing 
for some decided change of scene had reached a climax, so he 
decided hastily to go to Bonn. 

Ludwig was as delighted as a child at the prospect; he was 
at last, for a little while, to escape from all the misfortunes 
which, in Vienna, bound him to the clod with iron chains. He 
was to see again his dear home, the glorious Bhine valley, 
Wegeler and his wife, Eleonore Von Breuning. 

Stephan Von Breuning had already made known his friend’s 
decision in his native city, and Ludwig had made the necessary 
preparations for the journey, when his brother Karl, who now 
always looked very pale and haggard, rushed into Ludwig’s room 
paler than ever, and with troubled face, and told his brother, 
with heaving breast and horrible coughing, that, on account of 
a debt on a bill of exchange which he could not pay, he should 
have to go to prison the next day. Of course, in that case, he 
would lose the position of cashier of the National Bank, and 
he with his wife and child would perish. The most disgraceful 


A Biographical Romance. 


251 


part of it was that his brother Johann had the bill in his hands, 
and the prosecution came from him. 

Ludwig was almost stunned, and had scarcely recovered from 
his astonishment when his brother Johann also came in, and a 
fearful scene ensued in the master’s presence. The two broth- 
ers, united at first in their plans for extorting money from 
Ludwig, had been so stung by jealousy and ambition, especially 
in the sale of the drug store, so much discord and enmity had 
arisen about the meum and tuum, that their brotherly love had 
changed to open and inexorable hatred, each seeking, with 
cannibal delight, the destruction of the other. 

This hatred discharged itself fearfully when they met at 
Ludwig’s. He did not, of course, hear the slandering and 
reviling, but he saw their distorted faces, — yes, their shrieks 
must have passed all bounds, for the sound waves produced by 
them struck with such force against his diseased ear that it 
began to pain him terribly. 

His intervention was in vain. In vain his attempts to turn 
their thoughts ; even his entreaties, that they would have pity on 
him in his suffering, were of no avail. The passion of the 
quarrelsome brothers reached the highest point, — they came to 
deeds. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven, his whole body trembling with 
excitement and horror at this behavior of his brothers, threw 
himself on a chair, and held both hands to his ears with pain ; 
but when Johann put out his hand for a chair, and Karl was 
about to do the same, his measure was full. Starting up like 
an angry god, and with all his athletic strength, seizing both 
and tearing them apart, he cried : — 

“It is enough. Can your brother’s misfortune not produce 
in you so much feeling that you can respect and preserve the 
one thing left to him, — his rest and solitude, the peace of the 
one little comer where he conceals his misery? After what I 
have just seen, who knows but I may yet be witness of a 
brother’s murder? Not a word more here. Not a movement. 
Not a motion of the eyes.” 

He ran to his writing desk, took two rolls out of the drawer, 
each five hundred florins, threw them on the table, and cried : — 

“ There you have all I possess to the last penny. The money 
for my immediate support, for my travelling expenses, — my 
hopes and my happiness. Now the exchange and ” 


252 


Beethoven : 


His excitement would not permit him to say any more, "but 
he snatched from Johann’s hand the paper which he had brought 
to show Ludwig, threw it at Johann’s feet; then he took his 
hat and rushed out. 

Hours passed before Ludwig Yan Beethoven knew where he 
was. Benumbed by this experience, he had run away from 
home, away from the city, away, away, — would that it had 
been away from the world. The world, life, existence, were 
distasteful to him, and the certainty of sinking the next minute 
into utter annihilation would have been bliss indeed. 

His brain was burning up, an unspeakable pain was raging 
in his heart. Beethoven remained a long time in this stupefied 
condition. He could not grasp a thought, nor did he wish to. 
Without a will, a burden to himself, he rushed on over mead- 
ows, where the first violets were unfolding their cups in the 
young grass; through fields, from whose furrows the shooting 
seedlings lifted their bright, green heads ; past pretty, flourish- 
ing villages, whose inhabitants stepped timidly aside when they 
met him. What sort of villages they were did not dawn upon 
his consciousness, though he knew them all well, and had been 
in every one of them a hundred times. 


IN THE SPLENDOR OF HEAVEN AND THE DARK- 
NESS OF EARTH. BLOW AFTER BLOW. 

“Oh, good Heavens!” cried Frau Streng, Herr Ludwig 
Yan Beethoven’s housekeeper, after a fearful thunder-clap. 
The good woman held both hands to her ears when the thun- 
der had ceased to roll, crossed herself reverently, courtesied, 
and sprinkled herself with holy water, which she had got by 
dipping her middle and fore-fingers into a vessel which hung 
in the corner of the room. 

“ Oh, good Heavens,” she repeated, and turned her timid 
eyes to the sky, made doubly black by the night and the storm- 
clouds. “ This is a fearful storm. Flash after flash, clap after 
clap, and our poor master’s not at home.” 


A Biographical Romance. 


253 


“Well,” answered a pale, sickly-looking man, who sat on a 
table with his legs crossed, cutting, “he must be with the Bar- 
oness Yon Ertmann in his musical Boa, as he calls the thing.” 

“ Stoa,” said the woman, correcting him, with an expression 
of superior knowledge. “Boa is a serpent, and Stoa was the 
name the old warriors (kriegers) gave to an academy.” 

“Who?” said the tailor, looking up, as he drew out his 
thread, while a proud smile played around his mouth, “ Who? ” 

“The old krieger.” 

“Bah!” cried the man with the needle, laughing. The old 
Greeks ( Griechen ).” 

“What do I care, Krieger or Griechen?” answered Frau 
Streng, offended. “It is Stoa and not Boa.” 

“I believe it is,” said the tailor, to satisfy her; “but, dear 
Frau Schnaps, where did you get all this wisdom ? ” 

Now there was a jerking and a threatening storm in the 
many furrows of the woman’s face. “My name is not Frau 
Schnaps, but Frau Streng,” she cried; and quite a violent out- 
burst of anger seemed to be approaching. “None but the 
master may call me Frau Schnaps, because he likes the joke, 
but when you open your disrespectful mouth, you will address 
me as Frau Streng, an honorable person.” 

“ Oh, don’t get angry so quickly, Frau Streng,” answered the 
tailor, prolonging the last words emphatically. “I didn’t 
mean any harm.” 

“Yes, you did,” sputtered the housekeeper; but, suddenly, 
she uttered a loud cry, fell on her knees, bowed her head 
almost to the floor, and stopped her ears again. 

A terrible flash of lightning darted like a sea of fire across 
the sky, followed by an interminable clap of thunder. 

“ Holy Mary, Mother of God,” cried Frau Streng, with a 
deep sigh as she rose quickly. “God knows, I never saw 
such a storm as this.” 

“And that is saying a great deal,” said the tailor. 

“Well,” said the housekeeper, with a contemptuous glance 
at the thin figure, “you are not so very young either.” . 

The tailor seemed to have no desire to operate in this direc- 
tion any longer, so he took a side leap in the conversation, and 
said, with as much amiability as he could muster, “ To come 
back to the wisdom. Who told you, Frau Streng, that it was 
Stoa and not Boa ? ” 


254 


Beethoven : 


This tone, and the respectful manner of address, brought 
spring weather back to the old woman’s face. “ Oh,” she said 
more gently, “ Herr Schindler told me that, the master’s friend 
and pupil.” 

Then came another flash and a peal of thunder, which made 
the old woman cry out and stop her ears again. 

“If the master were only at home,” she murmured, “then I 
would lie in bed, and bury my head under the pillow. Oh, my 
goodness, how the rain pours down from the sky! ” 

The tailor had laid his work aside, snuffed the candle, and 
said : — 

“I ought to take an umbrella to the master.” 

“ Where would you take it?” 

“Why, to the baroness.” 

“Oh, yes, today is Wednesday.” 

“Right, and the Boa — I mean the Stoa — only takes place 
Sundays.” 

“And in the morning.” 

“Where can I find him, then?” 

“ Perhaps at the Blumenstock.” 

“ It’s too late for that. When the clock strikes eight, he 
has smoked his pipe there, drank his glass of beer, and read the 
Augsburg Zeitung. 

“ Perhaps he is with Herr Schindler, after all.” 

“That is possible,” said Frau Streng, thoughtfully. “He is 
a faithful soul,” she went on, good-naturedly, “young as he is, 
he is almost the only one who stands by the poor old master. 
Years ago, when he was still at college, he had such a rever- 
ence for him that he used to pass Herr Van Beethoven every 
day, just to say ‘ Good morning ’ to him, or to have a look or a 
pressure of the hand from him. Later, he came to know the 
master better, and then his greatest pleasure was to take walks 
with him.” 

“ How did Frau Streng learn all that?” 

“ I happened to be in the master’s room once when Herr Yon 
Schindler was talking about it, and he has never left him 
since.” 

“Yes, yes,” repeated the woman, with a sharp, decided tone, 
“he is the only one, except me, who keeps his love and devo- 
tion for him.” 


A Biographical Romance. 


255 


“And me?” asked the tailor. 

“Yes, you, too, — for the moment. But even Hofrath Yon 
Breuning, who has known the master longer, and was a friend 
of his youth, seldom comes to see him now.” 

“Dear Frau Streng,” answered Kugler, for this was the 
name of the tailor, who was also Beethoven’s servant, “it is 
very hard, indeed, to get along with the master.” 

“As if I did not know that,” answered the housekeeper, who 
noticed, to her great satisfaction, that the storm was gradually 
passing, although the rain still poured down in torrents. 
“Surely,” she went on, with complacence, “there is no one 
who knows and loves the poor deaf master as I do, and so I 
hear everything from him. He has sent me away at least a 
hundred times. Did I go? — or, if I went, was I not always 
on the spot again when I saw that he could not get along with 
anyone else?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Well,” cried Frau Streng, violently turning, with reddened 
face, to Kugler, “what is the meaning of this ‘ certainly ’ a yard 
long?” 

“Oh!” 

“ Out with it.” 

“ I was thinking that good Frau Streng did not suffer much 
by it.” 

“Why?” 

“Because the master always made her a handsome present 
when he had offended her or sent her away.” 

“ Oh,” cried the housekeeper, prolonging the word at least a 
few seconds, “then you think I make a business of quarreling 
and running away to get rich by stealing from my master?” 

“I did not say that.” 

“But thought it.” 

“No. I only thought that you might bear a great deal.” 

Frau Streng turned her back upon the tailor with a look of 
profound contempt, and made preparations to leave the room. 
But Kugler, who had jumped up from his tailor’s table, stepped 
in her way. 

“Offended again,” he cried. “Dear Frau Streng, do not 
take it ill; it is as hard to live with you as with Herr Van 
Beethoven.” 


256 


Beethoven : 


“If you think ill of me ” 

“As if there was any harm in laying up economically what 
was given you.” 

“ If I lay up economically this money which it has cost me 
so much to earn, you know what I do it for?” 

“Why, for the future.” 

“For whose future?” 

“For your own future, of course, Frau Streng.” 

“By no means,” cried the housekeeper. Then she went up 
to Kugler, laid her right hand on his shoulder, and said softly, 
leaning over to his ear, “I am saving this hard-earned money, 
to the last penny, that I may have something for our poor, good 
master when his money is gone this way and that, or his 
brother Johann robs him, or his nephew’s expenses take the 
last farthing.” 

As the woman said this her eyes shone with pleasure, and a 
tear glistened in her eye. 

Even Kugler was almost moved. “Why, that’s good of 
you, Frau Streng. I have all respect for you. I will not call 
you Frau Schnaps any more; ” and he added, almost ashamed, 
“ if the master gives me any more money for his offenses, I will 
put it with yours.” 

“Good,” said the old woman, “your word of honor,” and 
she put out her hand and shook Kugler’s joyfully. Both now 
went to the window and looked out. The storm had spent 
itself, but it was still raining with full force. 

“I am so worried,” cried Frau Streng again; “I do hope he 
is not on the way.” 

“Why not?” 

“As if it would be the first time that he had come home in 
the night from walking a mile. If he were on the way, he 
would see the storm coming.” 

“Kugler,” cried the old woman, “what are you prattling 
about ? Isn’t the master most always absent-minded ? He can- 
not hear, and he does not see because his mind is buried in 
music.” 

“Yes, that is true,” said the servant. “It seems to me 
sometimes as if Herr Van Beethoven lived only half in the 
world. I once knew a story of a fairy who stole the soul of a 
handsome young prince, and the poor son of a king wandered 


A Biographical Romance. 


257 


about the world, but it was only his body; his soul was with 
the wicked fairy who loved him, and would not let his mind 
and heart go.” 

“ Ah ! ” said the housekeeper, “ that story fits the master 
pretty well, only his fairy is music. I would have no objec- 
tion if it did not give rise to such bad stories.” 

“What? That he floods his room every morning when he 
bathes? — an old story.” 

“An old story? Certainly; but the landlord spoke of it 
again today. We have moved from one house to another for 
the sixth time this year. And what did the master do yesterday 
morning early, when you were attending to the front yard. He 
wanted to have the table free for writing, but he was so absorbed 
in thought that he forgot that he had already put the ink-stand 
in its place. One sweep of the hand over the table, — books 
and papers fly upon the floor, and the ink-stand onto the fine 
English piano.” 

“Indeed ! ” said Kugler. 

“ In the evening,” the housekeeper went on eagerly, “ the 
whole house is filled with smoke. I look everywhere. There 
is no fire here nor in the kitchen ; then I try the door of his 
room, and — God be merciful — the master sits quietly compos- 
ing, and close by him the flames are blazing up.” 

“ That’s why it has smelled all day as if something was 
burning. Where did the fire come from ?” 

“The master had thoughtlessly thrown the burning match 
with which he had lighted a second lamp to see better into his 
paper-basket.” 

“ That is a fine story,” said Kugler; “ we might all burn up 
some day. But Frau Streng mentioned a little while ago a 
nephew who cost so much money. How does that happen ? 
He has a mother living ! ” 

At this question the housekeeper shook her head, thought- 
fully. “ That is a bad affair,” she said, “ which has caused 
our poor master much trouble.” 

“ Won’t you tell me about it ? ” 

“ I don’t like to speak of it.” 

“ But it is better,” said Kugler artfully, “ that I should 
learn the truth from Frau Streng’s lips than to hear it distorted 
and mixed with untruths from other people.” 

1 7 


258 


Beethoven : 


“You are certainly right,” said the housekeeper; and, as the 
storm was coming back, or another seemed to he approaching, 
for it was thundering and lightning more fiercely than ever, fur- 
ther conversation with Kugler was the more welcome, as she 
hoped thus to hear and see less of the thunder and lightning. 

“It is all the same to me,” she said, with a timid glance 
through the window. “ I will take my spinning-wheel.” 

“ And I will light a pipe,” said Kugler. 

They did so, and when Frau Streng and Kugler sat down 
the former began : — 

“It is now about five years since one of master’s brothers 
died of consumption.” 

“ His name was Karl, was it not ? ” 

“ Yes, and he was cashier of the National Bank.” 

“Rich?” 

“ Certainly,” answered the housekeeper, “ but rich in debts.” 

“ Debts,” repeated Kugler, thoughtfully shaking his head at 
the memory of his own. “ Debts are always bad things.” 

“ But Mr. Karl left two worse things behind him,” said Frau 
Streng. 

“ What were they ? ” 

“ A frivolous wife, and a son eight years old, and badly 
brought up.” 

“ A poor inheritance.” 

“ But, as in his will he had requested his brother to take the 
guardianship of the child, and as the child was as talented as 
the mother was bad, ” 

“ The master was generous enough to take the guardianship,” 
Kugler supplied. 

“ Exactly.” 

“ That is quite like him.” 

“ But he took not only the guardianship, he took the nephew 
from childhood, and this was the beginning of all the mischief.” 

“ That is the way when people are too good,” said Kugler. 

“ Of course,” said Frau Streng, in her positive way. “ The 
man had enough to do already to take care of himself. But — 
hear the rest — ■ it’s strange, but from that time forth misfor- 
tunes came, blow after blow.” 

Just then, to the horror of the good, shrieking Frau Streng, 
came a fearful thunder-clap, which re-echoed in long peals from 
the roofs. 


259 


A Biographical Romance. 

Even Kugler had grown pale, and bent down before the 
thunder and lightning as if he were afraid of being struck. 
But now, ashamed of his fright, he summoned all his courage, 
and said : — 

“It is nothing, Frau Streng.” 

But the housekeeper was a cautious woman. Muttering to 
herself a few Pater Nosters and Ave Marias, she went to the 
mirror, took down one or two consecrated palm branches, and, 
laying them on her lap, sat down to the spinning-wheel again. 

“ If the master were only at home,” she added. But Kug- 
ler’s “Go on ” reminded her of her tale. So, in spite of the 
beating of her heart, she took up the threads of her flax and of 
her story. 

“ Then came the quarrel between the master and the mother. 
The mother wanted to have the child with her, but master 
insisted that the child must go to some school, and be separated 
from his mother.” 

“Why?” 

“On account of her bad way of living.” 

“ What happened ? ” 

“What happened? There was a horrible suit, which lasted 
a year, which, you might as well know, Kugler, ended only 
two months ago.” 

“ Good Heavens ! That must have cost money.” 

“Money, and time, and vexation.” 

“ How did it come out ? ” 

“ Oh, after the boy, during the five years, had been some- 
times with us, sometimes with his mother, and sometimes at 
school — — ” 

“He must have grown good,” Kugler interrupted. 

The housekeeper made a motion of her hand as if in denial. 
“ A r bitter fruit which will cost the master many evil days yet,” 
she was just saying, when a new thunder-bolt pealed above her 
head, like an angry confirmation of her thought. 

A slight pause ensued, when Kugler, who found the conver- 
sation a source of encouragement in the bad weather, began 
again : — 

“ How did the suit end ? ” 

“ The master won it. The child is acknowledged to be his 
adopted son, and is at the Institute with Herr Del Rio ; but the 
affair cost him a part of his life.” 


260 


Beethoven : 


“ How was that ? ” 

“ In the first place, Prince Lobkowitz failed at that time, and 
so our poor master lost what little of the pension remained to 
him, and then ” 

“ And then? ” 

But just at this moment came a terrible flash, followed by a 
thunder-clap so fearful that Frau Streng cried aloud, threw 
over the spinning-wheel, and fell first on her knees and then 
onto the floor. Kugler had also jumped up, and was trembling 
all over; his pale face assumed the color and expression of 
death; and an odor of brimstone pervaded the air around him. 

“ Grod help us,” he cried, and the words almost died on his 
lips. “ That struck ! ” 

“ Oh, good Heavens,” cried Frau Streng, raising half her 
body on her arm as quickly as she could, “where, where? 
Not here ? ” 

“ Certainly,” cried Kugler, looking about with a horrified 
expression. “ Don’t you smell anything?” 

“Sulphur! sulphur!” groaned the housekeeper, listening 
breathlessly for a fire-alarm on the street. But all was still ; 
only the rain, which poured down in torrents, beat against the 
window, and the storm howled madly through the streets. Even 
when Kugler had so far taken courage as to open the doors and 
then the window, and to look through both for blazing flames, 
everything was dark and still. But the smell of sulphur in the 
room and through the house lasted a long while. Meanwhile, 
the other inhabitants of the house had also become rebellious. 
It must have been what is called a cold strike. At all events, 
the housekeeper’s limbs were so affected that she could talk 
no longer. She took her old, worn prayer-book in her hand, 
sat down in the farthest corner of the room, and began to repeat 
the prayers to be offered during a storm. She did not need to 
see. She knew them by heart. Kugler paced to and fro. He 
was on his guard, and constantly afraid that, in addition to all 
this, fire would break out. 

So Kugler lost an important part, and what Frau Streng had 
on her mind, and was on the point of telling him. It was the 
story of Van and Von, remarkable from a psychological point 
of view, and having a deep influence on Beethoven’s character. 


A Biographical Romance. 


261 


YAN AND YON. 

The case was as follows. The suit between Ludwig Yan 
Beethoven and his sister-in-law was brought before the court of 
justice of the nobility of Lower Austria, and conducted for a 
long time. 

The opinion that the Van before Beethoven’s name, like the 
German Von, indicated noble descent, seemed to have been 
accepted in Austria from ancient times. The court, therefore, 
required no farther proof of this. In fact, the suit was for a 
principle of law, not for meum and tuam, but Ludwig Yan 
Beethoven had only to bring proof that his sister-in-law was an 
immoral woman, and, therefore, unfit to educate her son. 

What a painful task this was for Ludwig Yan Beethoven, 
who, from his earliest youth, had held nothing higher than 
moral purity ? How wounding this must have been to the moral 
sense of one to whom a character equivocal in morals was so 
repulsive that he could scarcely hear it spoken of, still less 
endure it near him ? And now, to be obliged to disclose before 
a court of justice the mode of life of a person so nearly related 
to him, in order to save a growing human being from ruin ! 

What a horrible, crushing thought, — of seeing the name hon- 
ored throughout the world, the name he held so dear, and which 
he regarded with just pride, — the name Yan Beethoven, — 
openly compromised; of bringing dishonor, to some extent, upon 
his own brother in the grave, by the revelations which he must 
make of his wife’s manner of living I How exciting, how very 
annoying it must have been to a person so extremely delicate 
in temperament, in moral feeling, and, therefore, so susceptible 
and easily excited ? 

Indeed, excitability is a characteristic of every artist, be he 
poet, musician, painter, or actor. His artistic power is largely 
based on this excitability of the nervous system. It is the wide- 
open door to receive the impressions of the outside world in 
larger measure than is common. It is, also, the key to the 
more exalted moods, unlocking the artistic sense, and where 
there are corresponding endowments, awakening the creative 
power. With this comprehension of what is beautiful, this 


262 


Beethoven: 


enthusiasm, transporting heart and mind, and with original con* 
ceptions and creations, the excitability is greatly increased. 

If, through over excitement, the soul, with all its powers and 
energies, is no longer in tune like Apollo’s lyre, then the 
strings make discordant sounds and spring too easily. 

Beethoven’s excitement at this time was immense. Courage, 
strength, pleasure in his work were almost gone. In fact, they 
would have been lost at least for a long while if another of 
earth’s sorrows had not prevented it. ‘ Notes in Need ’ was 
the unfortunate and yet fortunate call which aroused the old 
spirit of Beethoven, and kept it from perishing. If the mas- 
ter had not been absolutely forced to work at this time, to sup- 
port himself and his nephew, who was left to him provisionally 
by the court, we should not have seen a single great work pro- 
duced by him during that inauspicious period, for, fortunately, 
even the eighth symphony was conceived and even partly com- 
posed before the beginning of the suit. 

Now followed a new blow, which proceeded, it is true, from 
Beethoven’s peculiar and unpractical way of looking at things. 

Suddenly, a protest was entered in court against the legality 
of the suit being brought before a court of nobles. The count, 
in ^is protest, called attention to the fact that the little word 
Van of Dutch origin, did not, according to the laws of Hol- 
land, ennoble a family, and that its rank was the same in the 
province of the Rhine where Beethoven was born. Con- 
sequently, this Van could not be considered a prefix of the 
nobility in Austria or in any other country.* Beethoven was, 
therefore, required by the court to produce proofs of his nobility. 

It was evident now into what a state of nervous excitability 
Beethoven had been thrown by this unhappy suit against his 
sister-in-law, by the failure of Prince Lobkowitz, by his deaf- 
ness, and by the necessities of life. 

The removal of the suit from the court of nobles to the city 
magistracy drove him almost beside himself 

“My nobility is here — and here,” he said, pointing to his 
head and heart, in the consciousness of his personal and artistic 
worth, but with complete misunderstanding of practical mat- 
ters in the government of the world. 


A. Schindler’s Biography of Ludwig Yan Beethoven, p. 106. 


A Biographical Romance. 


263 


The whole affair justified Beethoven’s momentary outcry, hut 
his insisting in his view, as if he had received the most unpar- 
donable insult, as if this treatment was a neglect and humilia- 
tion of the artist, could only find an excuse in the excited con- 
dition of the nervous system. It was also a peculiarity of his 
strange and passionate nature that he never could find a mid- 
dle path. He wished now to go away, away, — to leave Vienna 
and the State of Austria entirely. In vain his friends, Stephan 
Von Breuning in particular, explained the matter to him clearly 
and reasonably. 

The heaven-storming giant would hear nothing of the con- 
clusions of cold reason so opposed to his self-confidence, his 
comprehension of pure art, and his ideal views of life. It was 
only after a long conflict and untiring effort that his excellent 
lawyer, Dr. Bach, the court advocate at the time, succeeded in 
appeasing him, and retaining him in the country. 

Was this the end of the countless annoyances of this unhappy 
suit? 

Oh, no. Blow after blow followed. New vexations, new 
entanglements, new loss of time, new dissensions. In its first 
decision, the court of nobles had recognized Beethoven’s guard- 
ianship over his nephew. The Vienna city magistracy now 
rejected this decision, and appointed his sister-in-law guardian of 
her son. The nephew passed from hand to hand, changing his 
methods of instruction and education as often as he changed 
his coat, and the suit began again. At last, after five years of 
ceaseless annoyance and wearisome debates, the court of appeal 
confirmed the first decision of the Landrecht of lower Austria 
and Beethoven gained the victory. 

But what a victory ! How deep and mournful was the influ- 
ence of this period upon Beethoven’s life ! 


WITHDRAWN FROM EARTHLY THINGS. 

Every storm spends itself at last. After Frau Streng had 
repeated all the prayers for a change of weather at least twenty 
times, she noticed, to her extreme satisfaction, that the lightning 


264 


Beethoven : 


now came in dim flashes, and the thunder could scarcely he 
heard. The rain, too, was less heavy, and Kugler was com- 
pletely at rest about the cold stroke. The smell of sulphur 
was entirely gone, and no trace of fire was to he found anywhere. 
One thing only was alarming and mysterious, — Ludwig Van 
Beethoven was not at home. The good woman’s uneasiness 
increased immensely. She ran to the window every five min- 
utes, opened it, and looked out into the darkness — in vain. 
Then she drew her head back, shook it, pulled at her cap, took 
a pinch of contenance out of the little snuff-box which she 
always carried with her, then ran to the door again to light the 
steps, crying always, in an anxious tone : — 

“ Something must have happened to the man.” 

The conversation between the housekeeper and the servant, 
who was gifted with the tailor’s art, began again, but it was 
conducted in monosyllables, and consisted entirely of mutual 
expressions of wonder and anxiety at the master’s mysterious 
delay. 

The clock in the neighboring tower struck ten. “ Sh ! ” said 
Frau Streng, with an eager, listening look, raising the forefinger 
of her left hand. 

“It’s nothing but the gray cat creeping along the floor,” said 
Kugler. 

“May the evil one ” muttered the housekeeper, though 

the gray cat was usually a favorite of hers. 

Then came another pause. Steps were heard on the grass. 

“He’s coming,” cried, the old woman, and ran to the door 
with a light. 

But it was only passers-by, who, for the sake of comfort, had 
been waiting in the tavern for the storm to be over. 

Frau Streng came back grumbling, for the good woman 
could be very ill-natured when she was offended, or anything 
went amiss in the household. 

“He ought to come home,” she said, turning to Kugler, 
after she had put out the light, as she stood with arms akimbo. 
“ Is tills the way to behave V — to stay away from home so long, 
— in such a fearful storm, too, — an old man who can’t hear, and 
so is all the more liable to get hurt, — leaving his folks at home 
worried and anxious. He ought ” 

“But, Frau Streng,” Kugler interrupted, looking at her like 


A Biographical Romance. 


265 


a child who is threatened with the rod, “ what are you going 
to do to me ! I am here, large as life.” 

“ Oh, you are a donkey,” sputtered the irritated woman, 
“ Did I mean you ? He might be stolen from me. You have 
no real attachment to your master, or you could not he so 
phlegmatic now.” Here Frau Streng suddenly uttered a loud 
cry, followed by the words, “ Jesu Maria! All good spirits 
praise the Lord ! ” 

Kugler sprang up in horror, and even he started back a few 
steps. A tall figure had entered, with a pale face, but serious 
and stern, a wild energy in the expression, and yet a dreamy 
air. The lower lip was drawn up, the bushy eyebrows looked 
as if they had been made with one stroke, the eyes were star- 
ing forward with a look of unfathomable depth, — wet through 
from head to foot, without a hat, the wild, disheveled hair, drip- 
ping with rain, hung down in long, stiff streaks from the majes- 
tic brow. 

“Jesu Maria! ” repeated the housekeeper, with folded hands, 
“ all good spirits praise the Lord ! Is this your ghost, Master, 
or is it you, yourself: ” 

Ludwig Van Beethoven did not hear, but the light which she 
held toward him, as he stood there trembling from head to foot, 
seemed to wake him from a deep and heavy dream. He passed 
his hand thoughtfully over his face, then looked surprised at 
his hollow palm, as he felt that the movement had made it wet. 

“What is this?” he said, astonished. 

“Oh, good Heavens,” cried the housekeeper. — “The man 
looks — Oh, gracious goodness! Oh, Herr Kapell-meister, 
you look like a drowned rat ! ” 

Beethoven, w r ho had gradually come to himself, was not a lit- 
x tie astonished at the amazement of his servants, but he was still 
more astonished at his condition. Now his own sensations and 
the sense of touch told him that he was really wet through and 
through. 

Frau Streng followed his movements with shakes of the 
head. 

“Yes, yes,” she cried, “wet from top to toe. Oh, good 
Heavens! and where in the world is your hat?” 

As she said this, she put her hand to her head, and Beet- 
hoven imitated her. 


266 


Beethoven : 


“My hat?” 

“Yes, your hat.” 

The master thought a moment, then he began to laugh 
merrily. 

“Oh, yes,” he cried, “ now I remember all about it. I went 
to walk, as usual. I was thinking about the Grand Mass 
which I was composing. Thought after thought came to me. 
I was noting them down, pondering on them, and — if I 
remember rightly, I was overtaken by a. storm.” 

“If you remember rightly!” cried the housekeeper, and 
clapped her hands to her head. “ Oh, gracious goodness ! Then 
you didn’t go in anywhere?” 

“What?” said Beethoven. 

“Why didn’t you go in somewhere?” shrieked the woman, 
with all her might. 

l/ I didn’t think of it,” said the master, shrugging his shoul- 
ders, and going toward his room. 

“ And the hat,” Frau Streng went on, pointing to her head 
again. 

“ The hat,” answered the master, very calmly, “I believe the 
storm carried it away,” — and thereupon Beethoven made 
preparations to sit down at his writing-table and note down 
quickly on paper the thoughts which were running in his head. 

But Frau Schnaps’ patience was exhausted, and it was lucky 
for Beethoven at this moment that he was deaf, the old woman 
stormed so about the folly, madness, and unreasonableness of 
men. 

Then, with a few significant remarks to Kugler about stand- 
ing around gaping when there was something to do, she called 
him to her, and, with his assistance, she seized their master to 
take off his wet clothes. Beethoven resisted at first, saying : — 

“Are you mad, Frau Schnaps? What does this mean? Let 
me write.” 

But he soon had to laugh at the old woman’s zeal, her angry 
face, and the contortions of her mouth, which indicated a hail- 
storm of reproaches and invectives. 

But the old woman did not laugh this time, as she usually 
did when poor, good master grew merry for a minute, she was 
too anxious about him and his health. 

“What next?” said Beethoven, when the old woman had 
brought him a dry shirt. 


A Biographical Romance. 267 

“The old child must go to bed,” she said, angrily, pointing 
to her master’s couch. 

“ To bed ? ” repeated Beethoven. “ And my writing? ” 

Frau Schnaps made no reply, but she took the candle, put it 
on the night-stand which stood by the master’s bed, seized a 
few sheets of blank music paper, which always lay ready, and 
laid these with a pencil by the side of the candle. 

“You are a domestic tyrant!” cried Beethoven, laughing, — 
however, he followed her advice, with Kugler’s assistance, for 
he was now really shivering with the cold. 

But Kugler had not yet taken off the master’s clothes, when 
the latter had withdrawn from earth again, and, giving himself 
up to his musical thoughts, was humming to himself a few pas- 
sages of the ‘Gloria’ which were floating before his mind. 
Meanwhile, Frau Streng was making the fire in the kitchen, 
and preparing a hot drink. When she brought it to the mas- 
ter, he remembered, for the first time, that he had eaten noth- 
ing since noon, but the tea satisfied him, and, feeling very tired, 
he fell asleep. 


THE MUSICAL STOA. 

What a powerful master-piece this was which was keeping 
Ludwig Van Beethoven, at this time, so wholly above the earth. 
It was The Grand Mass, that sublime work which he had begun 
as long ago as 1818, and finished four years later, in 1822. 

The Archduke Budolph, Beethoven’s distinguished patron and 
pupil, had been appointed Archbishop of Olmutz. Although 
it had always been troublesome to the master to give him 
instruction, on account of the regard he was obliged to pay to 
conventionalities, he brought his honorable pupil to a high 
degree of cultivation. In fact, he was the only one at the time 
whom Beethoven was instructing in harmony. The esteem 
which he felt for the art-loving prince, and the debt of grati- 
tude which he owed for his kindness to him, made him doubly 
attached to this scion of the imperial house. 


268 


Beethoven : 


Beethoven, therefore, resolved to give definite exprtssion to 
his regard by creating a grand mass for his installation. He 
had, for a long while, been impelled to return to this branch of 
the art of tone, the most sublime, and also the most difficult. 

The thought once conceived had taken root, and so the mas- 
ter went about the task with the full power of his mind, and all 
the genius with which he was endowed. But Beethoven was 
peculiar. Although he was a Catholic, he stood at too great a 
spiritual height to be inspired by a religious necessity, as 
Mozart had been when he wrote his Bequiem. Not his own 
faith, not devotion to the church service, but Beethoven’s free, 
creative fancy could, therefore, alone produce this mass. What 
gave it inspiration, soul, depth, and tenderness, were the origi- 
nal and peculiar views of the artist himself, permeated by his 
undogmatic though reverent devotion to the thought of the 
Eternal. 

But what was most important was the fact that Beethoven’s 
genius, when he was composing this mass, surrendered itself 
entirely to this creative thought. His feelings in these moments 
were those of the true poet, whose heart is wholly filled with 
a single idea. 

With what pride and power the eagle soared toward the sun 
of fame ! What a tremendous work towered before this heaven- 
storming giant ! 

From the very beginning of it, his whole character seemed 
to have taken new shape. The energetic flight of his spirit 
gave strength and elasticity to his body. Beethoven, w T ho was 
certainly a little bent by passing years, now walked erect again. 
Though the artist’s heart burned at times, he pressed on, mani- 
festing everywhere that cheerful energy which was the key-note 
of his life ; but the man who, by his deafness, was cut off from 
the world had almost trodden the world and external life under 
foot. Beethoven was, at this time, in a condition of absolute 
retirement from earth. 

Shut up within himself, kept apart, by his deafness, from 
all social intercourse, repelling his friends, with the exception 
of the ardent and enthusiastic young Schindler, by the rude- 
ness of his manner, Beethoven now threw himself into the study 
of philosophy when highest musical work did not claim him 
immediately. His intellect sought nourishment, refreshment, 


A Biographical Romance. 


2G9 


comfort. He found them all in that remarkable epoch which 
the history of the world was unrolling before his eyes, — he 
found them in the bright thoughts of philosophic minds, in the 
unchanging truths which their systems often concealed. These 
philosophic studies, indeed, added to his sad temperament; and 
his hard fate gradually gave to Beethoven’s ideas, without his 
knowing it, a dark coloring which, of course, extended to his 
compositions. 

He, therefore, became more systematic in his musical crea- 
tions, but also more positive in his gloomy defiance. He threw 
off contemptuously the fetters which had bound him before, and, 
with his gaze directed toward the infinite, reached out with crea- 
tive energy toward perfect freedom and unfettered creation. 

It is true that this freedom from restraint in his compositions 
was often mysterious to other people, — the wild, extravagant 
genius was almost terrific ; the melodious thought lost its clear- 
ness of tone in the bold construction ; the harmony often became 
harder; the effort toward new surprising, significant forms was 
more conscious, — but so much the more grand, powerful, and 
imposing was the structure, — this gigantic mass, full of ravish- 
ing beauty and sublime thought. 

Under the circumstances, could it fail to have a powerful 
reflex influence on Beethoven’s style as a composer? The fact 
shows that from this time Beethoven’s style took that well- 
known direction which gives to his gigantic master-pieces the 
peculiarity of a spirit who is waiting to this day for an (Edipus 
who shall solve its riddle. 

Thought, far-reaching, introspective thought, took a promi- 
nent place in Beethoven’s music at this period. 

But what is music, — to judge frcm its origin? Music has 
become only a universal language on condition that it shall 
remain an impersonal language, and one addressed to reason. 
It addresses itself to men, not considering their countless pecu- 
liarities; it expresses the state of the soul, not of the mind, and 
though these are related to each other like cause and effect, 
yet, in musical expression, this connection is wanting, because in 
music everything causal necessarily disappears. The impossi- 
bility of being logical is the negative quality, but, at the same 
time, the finest prerogative of an art which charms and comforts 
more than any other, because it alone produces that brief but 


270 


Beethoven : 


complete forgetfulness of life and of ourselves, — that forgetful- 
ness which the happiest need that their happiness may not be 
tedious, the unhappy to alleviate their sorrows, all to lift the 
oppressive burden of existence if only for a few hours. 

But what shape was the case assuming with Beethoven? 
Thought was rising gigantic and victorious ; but where flowed 
the soft, lovely spring of mild, beneficent feeling? 

Whence could he draw his inspiration? Only out of the 
depth of his own heart, his own soul, only by looking at all 
humanity, and out of the mines of everlasting truth. Where 
else could he find it? — among men? He fled from them. 
From love? Through a lofty friendship with Julie, it cast only 
a gentle, fading, evening blush over his life. From friendship? 
He did not believe in that any longer, after so many painful 
experiences. From nature? He had grown older and colder, 
and his gaze was lost in the spaces of infinity. 

In the sad reality which surrounded and oppressed him he 
had no refuge save in the solitude of his own personality ; but 
this personality toward which he was growing was powerful, 
serious indeed, hard, sharp, full of peculiarities, but yet a col- 
ossal form reaching out into the centuries. 

The composition of the mass, owing to its broad dimensions, 
as the master had planned it from the beginning, went on but 
slowly. He lived buried in this work, and one thing alone 
lifted him sometimes into the light of sociability, — the musical 
Stoa of which his servant Kugler had spoken on the evening 
of the tempest. 

This Stoa was a little union, consisting of a few artists and 
cultivated friends of art, in which Beethoven’s music, especially 
chamber music, that inexhaustible fund of deep, rich melody, 
was cherished by the better part of the Viennese artists.* 

It was the task of this modest society to execute classical 
music in the chamber style, most particularly Beethoven’s 
music, before a little circle of thoughtful listeners. Herr Karl 
Czerny gave the impulse, and was really the leading spirit of 
this little artistic society, memorable in history. 

The meetings were held every Sunday morning at his house, 
and at the house of the Baroness Dorothea Von Ertmann,t and 
were continued for three years with increasing interest. 

* Schindler, pp. 110-112. | Beethoven dedicated to her his Sonata, Op. 101, 


A Biographical Romance. 


271 


Herr Czerny enjoyed the great good fortune of having Beet- 
hoven go through many of his greatest works with him, sitting 
by his side often as he executed them, and, by his presence, 
exciting all to enthusiastic sympathy and attention. 

In executing the parts for the piano-forte, Herr Czerny had 
the Baroness Yon Ertmann, Herr Yon Felsburg, and Pf alter as 
valuable assistants. In the enthusiasm for Beethoven then 
prevailing in Yienna, great crowds, of course, attended this 
musical Stoa, as Beethoven himself called it, where everyone 
learned the best music, or at least gained a few clear ideas of it, 
and many congenial souls found an opportunity of knowing 
and esteeming each other. 

Many foreign artists and lovers of art, who, in other lands, had 
been able to get but dim ideas of the character of Beethoven’s 
music, sought out these musical Stoa of Beethoven’s, which had 
become everywhere famous, — this fountain of the purest poetry 
of tone, which had not flowed so pure and clear since the memo- 
rable days of Prince Lichnowsky. 

In fact, it was a kind of divine service which was held in 
these halls of art. Who is this tall, fine-looking, womanly form 
standing by Beethoven, like a priestess of Apollo, with the 
expression of quiet, sad happiness upon her face ? 

It is Julie Guicciardi, Countess Yon Gallenberg. That she 
had once loved Beethoven, the count knew. He had heard it 
from her own lips before their marriage; that she loved him 
still, as an old friend, honored him as an artist, pitied him from 
the depths of her soul as one of the most unhappy of mortals, — 
yes, that she felt under obligations to raise up again him whose 
happiness she had trodden under foot. But she also declared 
to her husband, firmly, that she had kept, and should always 
keep, inviolate the faith which she had pledged to him even to 
the most delicate spiritual relation. 

There is something which gives to a noble woman a wonder- 
ful power, — to her words, her expressions, her whole being, a 
convincing force which borders on magic, and which, in the dark 
period of the Middle Ages, was often believed to be magic. It 
is the majesty of moral purity and simple virtue. 

Count Gallenberg allowed his wife to continue her inter- 
course with Beethoven, to meet him in the circle of friends, and 
to treat him as a friend. 


272 


Beethoven : 


This, then, was the relation of Ludwig Van Beethoven to the 
Countess Julie, — that beautiful relation, a benefit to them 
both, a pleasant evening light over the master’s days which had 
been so full of trials. 

They had met today at the musical Stoa. A sacred worship, 
a common enthusiasm, had united them again ; a look into each 
other’s eyes had given to each a new existence. Since the first 
time that they saw each other, their love had never left the 
sphere of the ideal. 

But, it is a very common fact that, in human society, what 
is great succumbs to the evil that sneaks in the darkness. The 
mouldering wood destroys the strong building, and the blind 
mole that wallows in the dark can ruin all the vernal bloom of 
a paradise. 


* KYRIE ELEISON.’ 

Spring had come, and was decking the earth with loving care, 
like a beloved bride. The seeds were sprouting, the forest was 
green, and the larks were warbling in the air. 

Beethoven had never been indifferent to nature. The irre- 
sistible impulse stirred within him to go into the open country 
and throw himself upon the heart of the re-animated mother of 
all things. 

He went to Döbling, but even there there was a vast differ- 
ence between the old times and the present. Beethoven had 
become quite another man, — in fact, he lived only partly in this 
world. Formerly his spirit talked with nature and nature 
gave reply, opening to him endless mines of grand musical 
thought. Now he rushed through field and wood, through 
valley and meadow. 

He needed fresh air and exercise in the open country, but 
this necessity was wholly physical. His mind had no share in 
it, he lived in other spheres. Besides the creation of the Grand 
Mass, he was occupied with philosophical problems, inquiries 
into the development of mankind, and with a new, great idea 
intimately connected with these meditations, that of setting 
Goethe’s Faust to music. 


273 


A Biographical Romance. 

He felt that if any mortal was fitted for this task it was he. 

He was very much interested now in Goethe, although per- 
sonally these two great men could not get on together, as had 
been proved when they met at Toplitz.* 

Goethe’s poems, on the other hand, both from their subject 
and rhythm, had great power over him. He said, himself, 
“I am incited to composition by this language which builds 
itself up to higher rank as through the agency of spirits, and 
carries in itself the secret of harmony. ,, 

In Goethe’s Faust were combined the grand, leading thought, 
and the view of life which was founded upon it. The plan, 
then, of setting this powerful poem to music, and the composi- 
tion of the mass, absorbed him so entirely that he cared as little 
about going to Döbling as the swallows that twittered in front 
of his window. 

Happily for him, his second self, his enthusiastic pupil and 
worshiper, Schindler, stood by his side, helping and addressing 
him affectionately, while Frau Streng and Kugler took the care 
of inferior temporal matters. 

The two last were busy in the house, which he had hired in 
Döbling for the summer, unpacking and arranging the things 
which they had brought with them from Vienna. 

The windows and doors of his pleasant dwelling stood open, 
so that the fresh spring breezes could come in from all sides, 
and they did come in and showed their gratitude for this polite- 
ness by bearing on their light wings the precious fragrance from 
all the neighboring shrubs. Then the sun shone in so warm 
and pleasant, the little birds tried to remember their old songs, 
the beetles buzzed and hummed, and Kugler, the pale tailor 
and Beethoven’s servant, as he carried in from the wagon one 
volume after another of Beethoven’s music books, was singing. 

“ Why, Kugler,” Frau Schnaps called down from the kitchen 
window, “ what has got into your head today? ” 

“ Why?” asked Kugler, astonished, as he was just taking up 
another bundle of notes. 

“I have been shrieking myself hoarse after you, but you 
don’t hear me with your lamentable sing-song.” 

“Lamentable sing-song,” repeated Kugler, offended. “What 

*Marx; Beethoven’s Life and Works, Part Second, p. 180. Schindler, p. 84. 

A. Onlibicheff ; Beethoven, Sea Critiques et sen Gloaaateura , p. 62. 

l8 


274 


Beethoven : 


kind of a way is that to talk ? As if a fellow like me might 
not enjoy this beautiful spring-day as well as the flies dancing 
in the air yonder.” 

“ Oh, yes,” cried Frau Schnaps, grumbling, “ the trouble 
is that you are dancing with the flies in the air while I have 
my hands full of work. You are surely light enough for that.” 

“What!” said Kugler, offended. “Light? Does that 
refer to my trade, Frau Schnaps?” 

“My name is not Frau Schnaps,” was heard from above; 
and the housekeeper, who held an iron pot in her hand, raised 
it toward the tailor’s head for a tremendous blow. But Kugler 
had slipped under the wagon, and only cried out, “I forbid 
you to abuse me.” 

“You are a donkey.” 

“ I certainly am,” Kugler called from under the wagon, “ or 
I should long ago have been in some work that I did not have 
to share with you. If I didn’t stay to please poor, deaf master 
Herr Van Beethoven ” 

Kugler did not finish ; but he gave a sly glance with his left 
eye out from under the wagon to see what impression these 
words made upon the housekeeper. Certainly the hand which 
held the pot went down, and the brow began to grow smoother. 

“You may not be able to please him this time, but you can 
do your duty to your master.” 

“ Perhaps I haven’t done anything,” said the tailor, crawling 
out from under the wagon. “I am lame all over with drag- 
ging notes and books.” 

“That’s right.” 

“ But they must be brought up stairs, too.” 

“ First comes the kitchen, so that I can cook something for 
the master’s supper.” 

“ What have I to do with the kitchen? ” 

“ You must take the basket and put all the candles, snuffers, 
spoons, and dishes into it and bring them up to me, so that I 
can unpack them and put them in their places.” 

“ Where is the trash ? ” 

“Kugler!” 

Kugler shuddered, for he thought of the pot in Frau Schnaps’ 
hand. But this time it was only a warning. 

“Haven’t you any eyes in your head?” was the impatient 


A Biographical Romance. 


275 


Inquiry from above. “ The chest with the things in it is right 
before your nose.” 

“Oh, Heavens!” cried Kugler, “I really believe, Frau 
Streng, you have put an extra wrapper on every piece of the 
old rubbish.” 

“Yes,” said Frau Schnaps, sharply. “I didn’t forget any- 
thing but you. Does the foolish man think that T am indiffer- 
ent to my master’s property as I am to him ? Does he suppose 
that I didn’t see how he tossed the master’s boots helter-skelter 
into the big chest as if they had been rubbish? ” 

“But ” 

“Hold your tongue !” cried the housekeeper, angrily. “I 
took them out again and wrapped them up myself while you 
were loafing about.” 

“What was I doing? ” 

“You were loafing,” Frau Schnaps called out, and the pot 
came in sight again. Quick as lightning, Kugler disappeared 
under the wagon. 

“That’s a lie!” he cried, fiercely. “At that time I was 
buying that bunch of flowers that is in the water up there, with 
my few kreuzers, to please the master,” 

A slight pause ensued. 

“Did you really do that, Kugler?” was asked from above, 
in a gentle tone. 

“Yes,” he called out from under the wagon, “as true as 
1 Hve -” 

“Then come up here,” said Frau Streng, with something 
like emotion in her voice, “and we will make peace.” 

“ Where is the pot ? ” 

“ I have put it away.” 

“Truly?” 

“By all the saints.” 

Kugler slipped out cautiously from his fortress under the 
wagon. 

“ Now, do as I told you,” commanded the housekeeper. “ If 
you don’t, it will be night before we get the house in order.” 

Kugler obeyed, and the work went on quietly, Frau Streng 
only changing her plan in so far that she left the kitchen furni- 
ture still unpacked, that she might arrange Beethoven’s room 
first of all. She did well, for, to her horror, he came to Döl> 


276 


Beethoven : 


ling an hour later, accompanied by Herr Schindler, his friend 
and pupil. 

“ Oh, my goodness ! ” she cried in amazement when she saw 
them coming in the distance, “there they are already. Good 
Heavens ! we are not half in order. What will the master 
say ? What shall I do? We shall have a fine storm.” 

“Well, well,” said Kugler, “don’t be discouraged, Frau 
Streng. We have done our duty, and, though he may scold 
and storm never so loudly, he can’t eat us up after all.” 

“It must be something very unusual that has brought him 
home so early. He promised me faithfully not to come till 
evening.” 

“Well, we shall soon see,” returned Kugler. 

Meantime, Beethoven and Schindler had come nearer the 
house which was to be the summer home. A few dark furrows 
lay on Schindler’s brow, but Beethoven looked like an angry 
lion. 

“ Holy Mary, Mother of God ! ” groaned Frau Schnaps, cross- 
ing herself when she saw them. But Kugler, in his distress, 
took his master’s night-stand and carried it into the cellar. 

In the meantime, Beethoven had come in, and, as soon as he 
reached the foot of the steps, he called out : — 

“Where are those confounded people? Where is Schnaps? 
Where is that fellow Kugler ? ” 

But neither the housekeeper nor the tailor, who was crouching 
in the cellar, was in a condition to reply. Kugler was in pain 
from fright. 

“Where are the miserable set?” shrieked Beethoven again. 
“ I’ll have them both put in prison. I’ll have them hung if 
my ‘Kyrie’ is not found.” 

Schindler laid his hand soothingly on Beethoven’s arm, but 
the master pushed him back impatiently. 

“What, am I to be calm?” he cried, angrily, “when these 
satanic people have stolen my ‘Kyrie?’” 

This was too much for the honest Frau Schnaps. Her cheeks 
colored with anger, and coming forward courageously she 
shrieked in Beethoven’s ear, so that the whole population of a 
churchyard might have been awakened: — 

“ What do you say I have stolen? ” 

“ My ‘ Kyrie,’ ” Beethoven snapped out. 


A Biographical Romance. 


277 


“ The Lord have mercy upon us ! Christ, have mercy upon 
us!” groaned Kugler in the cellar. 

“What kind of a ‘Kyrie?’ ” cried Schnaps, astonished. 

“From my Grand Mass,” cried Beethoven, striking his 
forehead in despair. “ Good Heavens ! if you were not so 
stupid, you would understand that when a man has once com- 
posed a piece, if it is lost or stolen, it is not easy for him to 
compose it again. Oh, — and it was such a success.” -He ran 
to his room, where whole piles of music hooks lay on the piano, 
and looked, but in such despair and in such haste that he 
scarcely saw what was in the volumes or on the sheets. One 
pile after another flew out of his hand onto the floor, — right, 
left, this way, that way, just as it happened. But the ‘ Kyrie ’ 
did not appear. 

In the meantime, Schindler was endeavoring to make the 
housekeeper, who was trembling from head to foot with anger, 
comprehend the state of the case. 

It was so unspeakably annoying that Beethoven could really 
not be blamed for his anger and despair. For two days he had 
missed from his glorious work, the Grand Mass, the whole score 
of the first phrase of the ‘ Kyrie Eleison,’ ‘ The Lord have mercy 
upon us,’ with which the mass begins. 

It was a master-piece in thought and composition, whose 
place could not be supplied; as the master himself said, “To 
create over again from memory anything which has once been 
created is a task to the powerful intellect not only disagreeable 
but almost impossible.” 

Schindler’s explanation satisfied even Frau Streng, so they 
all proceeded to look for it. Even Kugler made his appearance, 
and the whole house, the closets, the chests, the furniture, still 
standing in confusion, the large volumes of music, in short, 
everything that might contain the * Kyrie,’ was searched through 
and through. 

But the unhappy * Kyrie ’ did not appear. At last everything 
had been searched for the third time. Beethoven sank down 
exhausted on a chair. Schindler paced restlessly to and fro, 
Frau Schnaps groaned, and Kugler, who was hungry, in spite 
of the horrible noise, had crept into the kitchen to get a piece 
of bread and a sausage, for he had already discovered that a 
few sausages were to be found among the wrapped-up kitchen 
utensils. 


278 


Beethoven : 


He was creeping along on his toes, looking for the big basket, 
that he might get his supper, and rest after the terrors of the 
day. 

At last the basket was discovered. He reached in and 
looked among the wrapped-up candles, snuffers, cups, and such 
things. 

“Ha!” he said softly, “I feel something soft; it must be 
a sausage.” 

He pulled his head out ; but Kugler had not yet secured his 
booty when he received a terrible box on the ear, and tumbled 
backwards onto the floor. 

“ I’ve caught you, old fellow ! ” cried Beethoven’s voice of 
thunder. “ You w r ere going to steal it again, were you ? ” 

“ Oh! ” groaned Kugler, pale and astonished, as he pressed 
both hands against the unfortunate cheek which had come in 
such unpleasant contact with Beethoven’s right hand, making 
horrible grimaces. “ Oh, your honor, it was only a sausage, and 

But at the same instant, Beethoven uttered a shriek which 
filled the whole house. Friend Schindler and the housekeeper 
rushed in pale as death. Beethoven stood like a stone, hold- 
ing out to them in one hand the sausage, in the other a paper 
covered with grease, in which it had been wrapped. His eyes 
were staring at both objects in horror, as if they beheld the head 
of Medusa. 

Schindler, the housekeeper, and Kugler understood nothing 
of all this till Schindler took courage and held out his hand for 
the paper. Then he uttered a cry of horror. 

“ Good gracious,” he cried, “ the ‘ Kyrie ! ’ ” 

“Lord, have mercy upon us! Christ, have mercy upon us!” 
prayed the tailor, with chattering teeth. 

“ Oh, good Heavens ! ” stuttered Frau Schnaps, as she fell on 
her knees. 

Beethoven’s hands, holding the sausage and the paper, were 
still stretched stiffly out before him, while he gradually returned 
to the consciousness of which his fright had really robbed him. 
Then he began to talk again. 

“ Wretched woman ! ” he roared at Frau Schnaps, who was 
still kneeling and wringing her hands before the master, in 
unutterable anguish and despair, quite forgetting that Beet- 
hoven was deaf. 


279 


A Biographical Romance. 

“ Have mercy and compassion, Master, — I did not know that 
— the sheets were so large and fine, — made on purpose for wrap- 
ping, — and the volume lay on the floor among some old things.” 

But Beethoven’s thought had taken quite another direction. 

While Schnaps was lamenting and entreating, and Kugler 
also still kneeling, and, his teeth chattering, was repeating a 
whole litany, the master, following the example of his friend 
Schindler, had rushed upon the baskets and chests which con- 
tained the candles, snuffers, cups, glasses, boots, shoes, sausages, 
etc., to protect which, the ‘Kyrie’ from the Grand Mass had 
been used. 

With the zeal with which miners rummage through the fields 
in search of gold, the two men now unwrapped all these things, 
smoothing with awe and laying carefully aside the large sheets 
of paper, some of which were still whole, while others were tom 
in pieces. At last the work was finished and, oh, joy, not a 
sheet was lacking of the score ! 

Beethoven and Schindler drew a long breath. A mountain’s 
weight was lifted from their hearts ; but when Beethoven turned 
round and saw Kugler still on his knees, looking like a culprit, 
and trembling from head to foot, he broke out involuntarily into 
that fearful laugh, peculiar to him, which could make the walls 
of the house tremble. 

Beethoven laughed so heartily, and the scene seemed so com- 
ical, and everyone was so happy at finding the ‘ Kyrie,’ that even 
Schindler was compelled to laugh, and the tailor, whose cheek 
was still burning, and Frau Schnaps, over whose faded cheeks 
the tears were running down in rivulets. 

Beethoven made himself merry over the two culprits. “ I 
ought to have you both hung,” he cried, in the happiest mood, 
“ but you are not worth the rope. If anyone ever touches my 
notes again, I will chop off* his ten fingers with my own hand. 
Now,” he went on, “get the house ready, so that an honest man 
can sleep in it tonight. Schindler, let us go into the nearest 
inn and get a bottle of mountain wine, for I feel the fright still 
through all my limbs.” 

Beethoven and Schindler went out, and Frau Schnaps got 
up slowly. 

“ Frau Schnaps,” said the tailor, “ will you scold me now 
because I did not wrap up the master’s boots and shoes ? ” 


280 


Beethoven : 


“ Hold your tongue,” answered the housekeeper. “ My 
limbs ache all over. Do give me that bottle yonder. I must 
have a swallow or I shall faint away.” 

‘“Kyrie Eleison,’” said Kugler, and went to obey Frau 
Streng’s command. “ I have certainly learned today what that 
means, — ‘Lord have mercy upon us.’” * 


LAND-OWNER AND BRAIN-OWNER. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven had come home from the musical 
Stoa in very bad humor. The last entertainment had been 
held today at Baroness Yon Ertmann’s. Spring was already 
decking the earth with its snowy blossoms, and — Countess 
Julie Gailenberg, contrary to her custom, had not "been present. 

Beethoven could not explain her absence in any way. He 
had come from Döbling to the city that he might not miss being 
with his beloved Julie for this single hour. He knew, too, how 
much J ulie thought of these brief meetings, which had become 
such a restful habit for them both. This was the last for a 
long time. 

Was Julie sick? Had anything happened? Beethoven 
had asked the baroness. She answered both questions with a 
shake of the head, which seemed to the master to be accom- 
panied by embarrassment. He was troubled, restless, out of 
humor, — and yet he had a fatal walk to take, — his lawyer was 
expecting to make known to him the final judgment on another 
suit which, alas, he was obliged to bring. 

Prince Kinsky was dead. As is well known, he was one of 
those four noble-hearted men who opposed Beethoven’s call to 
the court of Westphalia by paying the great master, the pride 
of Vienna, a yearly salary of 4000 florins in bank-notes. The 
finance patent had already diminished this salary. Prince 
Lobkowitz had been obliged to suspend payment, and thus 
Beethoven had lost an important part of it. Now, at the death 


♦The whole occurrence is historical. Schindler, p. 119. Oulibicheff, p. 63. 


A Biographical Romance. 


281 


of Prince Kinsky, his heirs refused to pay their part, and Beet- 
hoven was on the point of being reduced to the small sum 
which remained from the Archduke Rudolph. 

Fortunately, he had better news today. His lawyer informed 
him that he had gained his suit, and that the Kinsky heirs 
would be obliged henceforth to pay him annually a little more 
than 300 florins. 

Three hundred florins ! What were these at this time to 
Beethoven, who had to pay for the education of his nephew 
alone, — for he made it the end and aim of his life to raise him 
up to be a good and wise man, — nearly twelve hundred, for his 
housekeeping eleven hundred, for his servants nearly nine hun- 
dred florins. 

Alas! the yoke of earthly care pressed more and more 
heavily upon him. He had never felt it more than now, as he 
left his lawyer and went toward home ; but, as usual with him, 
the more the hand of fate sought to bend this strong character, 
the more forcibly did his energy manifest itself.* 

“Then I must practice the greatest self-denial,” he said to 
himself. “ Nothing must be wanting to the boy’s education.” 

For the next few days Beethoven’s dinner consisted of a 
glass of beer and a few rolls. t 

But are not light and shadow inseparable ? From this time 
forth a certain niggardliness showed itself more and more in 
Beethoven’s character. How could it have been otherwise ? 
Had not fate been niggardly toward him ? 

The deaf man, almost wholly alone in the world, now living 
only in the sphere of his musical creations, and his quiet philo- 
sophical dreams, gradually reduced the necessities of life to a 
minimum. But Beethoven’s intellect, which had trained itself 
from earliest years by the great characters of classic antiquity, 
which, from childhood to the present hour, had never ceased to 
bid defiance to the blows of fate, had itself assumed something 
of that ancient grandeur. 

Uplifted above the storms of fate, like the rock which towers 
to the sky from out the foaming sea, looking the inevitable in 
the face with a firm, bold defiance, Beethoven had accustomed 
himself to regard this life not as an end but as a means 


Wegeler and Ries, p. 140. t A fact. 


282 


Beethoven : 


toward perfection. He held this view, which our elders called 
trust in Providence, fixed and unchangeable in all the condi- 
tions and chances of life. The incalculable gain to him was 
this, — that this faith placed in his hands the key with which 
he could find his way out of the labyrinths of life, and, like his 
ideal Plato, could retain a wonderful repose of soul. 

Physical privations were, therefore, nothing to him if only 
the ideas for which he lived could remain untouched. 

At one time during the suit, touching the guardianship of 
his nephew, Beethoven wrote to the court : — 

“My wishes and efforts have no other aim than that the boy, 
whose talents seem to justify the brightest hopes, may receive 
the best possible education, and that the expectation which his 
father built upon my brotherly love may be fulfilled. The 
twig is now easily bent; but, if more time is wasted, it will 
grow crooked away from the gardener's training hand, and its 
uprightness, intelligence, and character will be forever lost. I 
know no more sacred duty than the superintendence of the edu- 
cation and formation of a child.” * 

Beethoven was in earnest in what he said, as well as in every- 
thing that he did. All the greatness of his heart and mind 
was shown by the fact that the son of that brother who had 
caused him so much anxiety and trouble, and had cost him a 
whole fortune, was adopted by him, and considered as his own 
son. Yes, and who knew of this generosity except his valued 
friend Schindler? From this time forth he regarded the little 
savings in the shape of bank-stock, which he had been able to 
rescue from his brother’s grasp, no longer as his own posses- 
sions, but as the property of this brother’s child, whom he had 
adopted. 

The yoke' of earthly care now often pressed with an iron 
weight upon the master’s neck, but it did not bend it. He, 
before whom emperors and kings had bowed, who had dwelt in 
the palaces of princes, for whose friendship the great ones of 
the earth had been rivals, bore it with that cheerful character- 
istic energy which defied all the storms of fate. 

Beethoven was sitting in his house in the city, reading the 
newspaper, and eating his dinner. Frau Schnaps, who was still 


* Schindler, p. 108 . 


A Biographical Romance. 


283 


at Döbling, supposed that he was at some good restaurant. He 
had just eaten one slice of bread, a second lay before him, with 
a glass of beer beside it. 

He must have been reading something peculiarly interesting, 
for a sarcastic smile passed over his usually serious face. 

“My dear brother Johann was right, then,” he said, taking 
a swallow of beer, “when he assured me, a few days ago, that 
I should not get on in the world as well as he had done, for the 
paper says he has been elected to some post of honor. Oh, 
well,” said the master, shrugging his shoulders, “why not? by 
means of the drug store which I bought for him, he has become 
a rich man, and keeps a carriage. I do not grudge it to him, 
for he is my brother. It is true that he might be a little more 
affectionate and less haughty toward me since he is what he is 
only through me. For instance, I should have liked very 
much to speak to him today, and I know that he stayed at the 
great hotel by my house as well as he know% that I am here. 
Indeed, he drove on in his elegant carriage as I was going to 
the baroness’, — he saw me, too, very well.” 

Beethoven laid the newspaper down, took another swallow 
of beer, then he said quietly to himself : — 

“ There is nothing more childish than pride. On what merit 
does it rest? Instead of raising himself to intelligence, and 
thus proving his dignity as a man,, the proud man is satisfied 
with his own egotism, claims rights which do not belong to him, 
makes the most of them before other people, and thus gains 
honor and esteem.” 

“Yes,” he continued, after a short pause, in which he con- 
sumed the whole of his extremely simple meal, “if men only 
knew what pride is in the noblest sense of the word. It is the 
consciousness of his own dignity, which belongs to man as a 
reasonable, free, divine being, — but, of course, his pride is only 
expressed by the fact that he maintains this dignity in all cir- 
cumstances of life.” 

Just at this moment, Kugler, who had accompanied his 
master from Döbling into the city today, came in and handed 
a visiting card to Beethoven. The master read : — 

“Johann Van Beethoven, Land-owner.” 


284 


Beethoven : 


Ludwig smiled compassionately. Then he took a pencil out 
of his vest-pocket, turned the card over, and wrote on it : — 

“Ludwig Van Beethoven, Brain-owner.” 

When he had done this, he handed it to Kugler, with a seri- 
ous face, and said : — 

“ Take it hack to my brother. He boards at the hotel close 
b ?-” 

Then Beethoven quietly took his hat and went to attend to 
other business. 


FORGOTTEN. 

Everything is changeable, subject to the influences of time. 
Who has not experienced this truth in himself, and in his sur- 
roundings? Kingdoms come and go, thrones are built up and 
overturned; new laws, received at first with rejoicing, are 
crowded out with the scorn of succeeding years. 

Of course, that which man has recognized as great and noble 
at one time should remain great in his eyes for all time, but, 
alas, here comes in fashion, that offspring of human weakness. 

Everything is subject to change. Thus it was with the opin- 
ions and musical taste of Vienna. 

In its time, German music and the German opera, and its 
brilliant lights, Glück, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, had 
been greeted with astonishment and enthusiasm, and Beethoven 
was honored in Vienna with a worship which bordered on idolar 
try. 

Was it not the first men of the nation who treated Ludwig 
Van Beethoven with so much affection? Did not all the lead- 
ers in the nobility, in science, and art stand at the head of his 
innumerable worshipers? Did not all hearts belong to him? 
Was it not the pride of the least of the Viennese to count Beet- 
hoven among his fellow-citizens ? 

Since the death of Glück and Mozart, the people of Vienna 
were enthusiastic about the German opera ; since Handel and 


A Biographical Romance. 


285 


Haydn, about the German oratorio ; since Beethoven, about the 
symphony. But Beethoven was more victorious than all at the 
time of the congress of Vienna, in those days when emperors 
and empresses, kings and queens, princes and princesses, were 
rivals in his favor ; when, like a Grand Mogul, he received the 
homage of the potentates of Europe in the palaces of the Arch- 
duke Rudolph and Prince Rasumowski, — the times of the 
great Beethoven concert, when everyone rose in triumph to 
acknowledge him, Ludwig Van Beethoven, as absolute sover- 
eign, as the highest monarch in the realm of tone. Indeed, 
from that time forth, Beethoven stood like a prince in public 
opinion. Never, till then, had a man attained this proud but 
dizzy height of fame, — none will ever attain it again. 

How was it in Vienna now, ten years later? German music 
had yielded to the Italian. The multitude, busy with Rossini, 
had entirely forgotten Ludwig Van Beethoven. His friend 
and biographer, Kapell-meister Schindler, says on this point : — 

“For a few years the Italian opera in Vienna had taken pos- 
session of the halls dedicated to the art of tone, where, since 
Gliick’s time, German music had been cultivated and cher- 
ished; but, although for the last ten years the signs of the 
times had seemed to incline to sensuality and materialism, yet 
there was still stirring among the people of Vienna so much 
noble material that, if the desire had been strong to cling 
seriously and faithfully to the music of the fatherland, it would 
never have been possible to crowd it out, or rather to drive it, 
from its native ground. 

For the German opera had still among her votaries firm sup- 
porters, who, by holding together, ought for a long time to have 
resisted the foreign intrusion, and kept the edifice from its 
approaching fall. But the administration did not seem to have 
sufficiently comprehended the demands of the time to yield 
with caution, and so change nothing essential. The public grew 
impatient, and when the first Italian solfeggio was heard in 
those halls of art, the banishment of the German opera was as 
good as sealed.” 

All were carried away by the irresistible force of the stream, 
— was it to hell or to heaven? No one asked, for all were 
intoxicated, charmed, beside themselves, with the roulades of 
Rossini. 


286 


Beethoven : 


How was it with Beethoven? As monarch in his own 
domain, he was almost as much forgotten by the crowd as if he 
had never existed ; and no other honors were paid to him except 
that outward respect which caused even persons of the highest 
rank to turn aside as he passed along. 

How deeply this ominous condition of things must have pierced 
Beethoven’s heart ! how unspeakably heavy must have been the 
burden ! He did not comprehend the character of these miser- 
able people, who, after the storms of the Napoleonic period, were 
taking their recreation. They wished to be at ease again in 
the old way, to quiet their nerves, to relax their minds, to con- 
sider music as an obedient, living slave, who might drive away 
their ennui , when, after a luxurious dinner, they rested for 
digestion in their boxes at the theatre. 

Bossini became their idol; Beethoven was forsaken and for- 
gotten.* 

With immense and unheard of expense the Italian opera 
entered the field against the German. Through what distin- 
guished talent did these flatteries of Rossini, full of sensual 
charm, make their way to the dominion of the world. The 
Italian opera company, then in Vienna, counted among its 
members Lablache, Donzelli, Rubini, Ambrogi Ciccimarra, and 
the ladies, Todomainville, Dardanelli, Ekerlin, Sonntag, and 
Caroline Unger. 

Who can wonder, then, at the intoxicating charm which held 
all Vienna at this time? Beethoven, the great Beethoven, was 
so wholly forgotten that it was only secretly, and as an after- 
thought, that the idea occurred to the Society of Austrian Lov- 
ers of Music, which had existed for ten years, and during that 
time had elected many native and foreign artists as honorary 
members, that it would be a disgrace to them if they did not 
also elect their great fellow-citizen, Ludwig Van Beethoven. 
They did so, at last, but Beethoven was so deeply offended 
that he was on the point of sending back the diploma, and it 
was only with difficulty that he was persuaded to accept it 
without a reply, f 


♦Schindler, p. 143. Marx. Oulibicheff, p. 81. 

t Schindler, p. 135. He had already received, in the fall of 1822, the 
diploma of honorary membership of the Academy of Arts and Sciences, at 
Stockhohn. 


287 


A Biographical Romance. 

Can it be that he was understood, this great, secluded gen- 
ius, — he who, in his colossal tone-creations, had torn open the 
gates which lead into the realm of the vast and the unfathom- 
able? Glowing flashes dart through the night of this realm, 
and ghostly forms appear and disappear, shutting us in more 
and more closely, threatening to annihilate us, and yet lifting 
us to Heaven. 

Little souls, it is true, started, and still start, at the omnipo- 
tent, fearful spirit which appears in Beethoven’s great works, as 
from out a thunder-cloud, transfixing all by its force. 

Surely, they do not understand these wonderful wendings of 
counterpoint which unite again in one glorious whole. 

These sounding waves rush by like the rhapsodies of a gen- 
ius; but where is the soul that is not held by the gentle syren 
voices in this brilliant variety of splendid movements, and 
enticed deeper and deeper in the spirit-world ? Oh, look, look 
at the ghost-like dance of these strange forms ! How they 
separate, sparkling, shining, as they chase each other in groups ! 
Hark, transported soul, to the magic language of the spirit- 
world, and learn to understand all the divine forebodings, 
thoughts, and feelings which unite to rise above the childish 
nonsense of earth, — which permit you, at least for a few 
moments, to look with astonishment and delight into the depths 
of the spiritual life of one of the greatest and most powerful 
of men of genius. 

Beethoven had just closed his eyes. His sleep had been 
short and disturbed today, partly because he had been compos- 
ing all night, partly because the storms of the cold winter raged 
so wildly and fiercely around him. But it was too cold and 
too dark in the room now to get up, — too dark because it was 
only six o’clock, and even in the bright light of noon scarcely 
light enough came into the little windows for a person to see 
to read easily, — too cold because Frau Schnaps had had fore- 
thought enough not to make any fire in the stove. Beethoven 
would not leave his feathers yet. 

So the master turned on his side again, closed his eyes, and 
tried to sleep. 

A quarter of an hour later Frau Schnaps was kneeling 
before the stove, trying to make a fire. The good woman blew 
and blew, but it would not draw ; and the smoke beat back in 


288 


Beethoven : 


thick clouds, so that she had to lean hack and try to wipe the 
smoke away from her eyes. 

At this moment, Kugler, who had been to get rolls for break- 
fast, came up the steps. The pale, thin, little tailor was puff- 
ing and blowing terribly when he reached the seventy-second 
step leading to his master’s rooms. 

“ Oh, Heavens ! ” he groaned, when he saw Frau Streng, and 
stood on the upper step catching his breath, “if these con- 
founded rooms were not so terribly high ! I — shall — get the 
consumption ! ” 

“ And I shall stifle from this horrible chimney,” cried Frau 
Schnaps, wildly. “Just see now how that is smoking again. 
Everything is full, — entry, parlor, and kitchen. Oh, my good- 
ness, we shall have a pretty fuss here when master wakes. 
It will be all my fault. I didn’t know how to make a fire, — 
pay no attention to him, — have no feeling for him.” 

Just then there was a furious ring. “ There it is,” said Frau 
Streng, with horror, and started up. “ Now we shall have it.” 

“Mercy on us!” groaned Kugler, sighing, and scratching 
himself behind his ears. 

“Frau Schnaps! Frau Schnaps!” Beethoven called out 
from his room, in stentorian tones. “In the name of all the 
devils, do you mean to smother me, or do you take me for a 
ham that you are smoking? ” 

“ Hood gracious ! ” said Frau Streng to Kugler, almost weep- 
ing, “it has been so every morning since we’ve been here.” 

“Why don’t we move, then?” asked Kugler. 

“Why?” repeated the housekeeper, making a face at Kug- 
ler, which imitated in its expression the tailor’s own stupidity. 
“ Why ? Because ” 

“Frau Schnaps,” was thundered again from the bed-room. 
“ Grood Heavens ! Open the window, or I shall choke.” 

The housekeeper drew another deep breath, gathered up her 
energies, and went into the lion’s den. Beethoven was cer- 
tainly right. The whole room was so full of smoke that he 
could scarcely breathe. 

“What are you doing now?” cried Beethoven, in utter 
despair. “ Almost a thousand years old, and can’t you make a 
fire.” 

The housekeeper shrugged her shoulders. 


289 


A Biographical Romance. 

“ Isn’t it your fault this time ? ” 

The housekeeper shook her head. 

“Then tell the landlord.” 

“Yes, indeed,” muttered the old woman to herself, “that 
great rough man who treats Herr Beethoven like a day- 
laborer.” 

“What?” shrieked Beethoven, who, of course, had heard 
nothing. 

Frau Streng was silent, and opened the window. 

“ I shall move again today,” said Beethoven. “ After break- 
fast find me another house, and not so high or so dark as this, 
— a little sun, and, above all, no smoke.” 

The old woman drew a deep sigh, and put the light on the 
table. 

“Did you understand me, Schnaps?” said Beethoven. 

A long, sorrowful glance fell from the housekeeper’s eyes on 
her master. Then she went to the conversation book, which 
lay on the writing-desk in the next room, and took a pencil and 
wrote in it : — 

“ My good master has perhaps forgotten that the owner of 
this house will not let us go out because we owe him two quar- 
ters’ rent.” 

Beethoven read it, then he threw down the book, turned on 
the other side, and lay down in silence. 

Two big, hot tears stood in Frau Schnaps’ eyes when she 
took the book up again. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, with choking voice, “ how gladly I would 
pay the rent from my savings, but that brute of a landlord 
demands the whole year’s interest, and — there would be noth- 
ing to eat.” 

Beethoven seemed to be asleep again; and as the smoke had 
disappeared a little, and the cold, piercing air came through 
the open window, the housekeeper shut it again and crept out. 

The master’s heart was heavy. He was thinking of his dear 
brother Johann, the brain-eater, as he called him, who had hired 
the house for him because it was very cheap, and he could thus 
save a little of his income. But it was only for a moment that 
he followed this train of thought. 

“Bah,” he cried, turned on the other side, and concentrated 
his thoughts with characteristic energy upon the great musical 

1 9 


290 


Beethoven : 


ideas which were occupying him, and which afterwards took the 
colossal form of the ninth symphony. 

He was meditating upon Goethe’s Faust, and, from the 
depths of his heart, tortured by the sorrows of earth, came the 
words, “Renounce! Thou shalt renounce!” and these thoughts 
became sounds in his mind, expressing forcibly the conflict of 
the soul in its struggle for peace with the hostile forces which 
stand between man and earthly happiness. 

An hour later Beethoven rang again. He longed to get out 
of bed and put his thoughts on paper. He called for a light 
and breakfast. Frau Schnaps brought the first, and also a tin 
box closely locked. When she had placed them upon the table, 
Beethoven took a small key from his almost empty purse, and 
opened the box. A strong, refreshing fragrance rose from it. 
It contained parched coffee. 

With a solemn face, and great care, Beethoven now counted 
exactly sixty beans, and laid them in a little heap. “One 
cup,” he said, brushed the heap back a little, and counted 
sixty more with the same exactness. “ Second cup,” he said. 

Frau Schnaps brushed the coffee off into a cup, keeping, of 
course, each little heap separate. Beethoven locked the box, 
and the housekeeper carried it to its place. Now Kugler came 
and brought his clothes, and the washing scene began, the mas- 
ter running, as usual, back and forth, and composing, even 
stopping several times to write the notes. Then came Frau 
Schnaps, grumbling, and wiped up the water on the floor. The 
master was dressed now, and went to work. 

But he had scarcely had a quiet hour when Frau Schnaps 
came in. This time she was dressed to go out, and had her 
market basket on her arm. There was something unusual in 
her expression, which seemed to proceed partly from embarrass- 
ment, and partly from emotion. 

“ Well, what do you want again so soon?” said Beethoven, 
when he saw her. 

Frau Schnaps made a movement with her thumb and fore- 
finger, as if she were counting money. 

“ What ” cried Beethoven, starting up, “ more money already ? 
I gave you twenty florins the day before yesterday.” 

“ Not the day before yesterday,” Frau Schnaps wrote in the 
conversation book, “but three weeks ago.” 


A Biographical Romance. 


291 


“ It is a lie ! ” Beethoven snapped out. “ She has pocketed 
the money. She steals my money.” 

“Herr Van Beethoven!” cried Frau Streng, and tears came 
into her eyes. 

“ Where is the money ? ” cried the master, still furious with 
anger. “I will not trust any human being any longer. They 
are all my enemies, all traitors, too. Because I am a poor, 
deaf, unfortunate man, they all think they have a right to 
make fun of me, to tread upon me, to lie to me, to deceive and 
rob me, — but I will not suffer myself to be betrayed and 
cheated, — I will send you and that fellow Kugler to the devil, 
and be my own servant, and cook for myself.” 

“But I will not go,” Frau Schnaps wrote. 

“We shall see.” 

“But I will not go,” Frau Schnaps wrote again. 

“Why?” 

“Because I love and honor you, and have compassion upon 
you.” 

“ Foolish stuff,” said the master. “ Not a soul in God’s 
wide world loves me.” 

“ Except me,” said Frau Streng, pointing to her heart. Then 
she put her hand in her pocket, pulled out a little book, opened 
it, and laid it before the master, pointing to a certain place. 

Beethoven read. It was the old woman’s housekeeping book, 
in which the last twenty florins were accounted for* with the 
greatest exactness. 

“ Well, I don’t care,” he said, sullenly, “ you cannot have 
any money.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I have no more,” Beethoven cried out again, 
angrily. “I have offered, through Schindler, my largest and 
most successful work in manuscript, the Grand Mass, to the 
European courts, great and smaller, for the sum of fifty ducats. 
Only six have subscribed,* and I have no money from any of 

*A fact. Only four courts, namely, the Russian, Prussian, Saxon, and 
French, accepted the offer. Prince Anton Radziwill subscribed for the fifth 
copy, and Herr Scheibe for the sixth, in "behalf of the St. Cecilia Society in 
Frankfurt-on-Main. Prussia commissioned her Ambassador, Prince Hatz- 
feld, to inquire whether Beethoven would not prefer to receive an order 
instead of money. Beethoven did not consider it for an instant, but replied 
with emphasis, “ Fifty ducats.” Schindler, pp. 122, 123, 


292 


Beethoven : 


these. Now you know how I stand, — now do as others hay« 
done, — go and leave me in the lurch.” 

“No,” said Frau Streng, shaking her head, while two great 
tears ran down her cheeks. 

“What?” asked Beethoven, roughly controlling his emotion. 

Frau Schnaps wrote, “I will not leave my good, old master 
at all, but I have one request to make of him.” 

“ Well, what is it? ” 

“ Of course, I cannot buy the Grand Mass, of which I can 
only think with terror, on account of the ‘ Kyrie,’ but perhaps 
I can help you, and you can help me.” 

“How?” 

“ Herr Van Beethoven will pardon a poor servant who wishes 
to make a little money.” 

“Make your story short.” 

“ I will advance you two hundred florins till you have money, 
if you will pay me the usual interest,” the old woman wrote, 
with trembling hand, in the conversation book. 

A burning flush passed over Beethoven’s face, while Frau 
Streng turned pale, and looked like a person awaiting a sentence 
which might bring pardon or death. 

A long pause ensued. 

“ Schnaps,” said Beethoven at last, and his voice trembled, 
“you can stay, and I will take your money at interest, of course, 
but now make haste and go away, or else ” 

But Frau Schnaps was extremely happy. She seized the 
great master’s hand violently, and, while she kissed it fervently, 
her hot tears fell upon it. 

Beethoven started. 

“Stop your nonsense,” he said, with forced roughness. 

“No, no,” she said merrily, and, taking the pencil, she wrote 
again : — 

“Now I have one thing more to ask.” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ Write a few lines to good Herr Schindler, your dear pupil 
and friend, and ask him to dine with you today. I will take 
care of the dinner, and see that you have some good shell-fish. 
I must see my dear, good master merry again at last.” 

Beethoven read it and laughed. 

“Well, just as you please,” he said. “ You have me under 


A Biographical Romance. 293 

your thumb, Schnaps, and I see that I shall he obliged to do as 
you wish.” 

Beethoven took pen and paper, and wrote : — 

“Dear Schindler, 

Frau Schnaps advances money for the entertainment, so 
come to dinner today at two o’clock. We have good news, too, 
but let it be between ourselves, that the brain-eater may not 
know anything about it. Beethoven.” * 

“Now,” said the housekeeper, beaming with delight, “I will 
bring you the money, then I will deliver the note, and at noon 
you shall enjoy the fish.” 

And Frau Schnaps did as she had said. It was after two 
o’clock when Beethoven and Herr Schindler, who had lately 
received the appointment of musical director of the Josephstadt 
theatre, sat behind the much-talked-of fish. Beethoven, whose 
delight at finding in his desolation a few friends who still clung 
to him with ardent love, had at length driven away his melan- 
choly, was cheerful, and, as he used to say, free and easy. Of 
course, it was, as usual, hard to carry on the conversation, and 
pen and paper were necessary, but Beethoven did most of the 
talking himself today. By his side sat the only man in whom he 
still had confidence, whom he understood, and by whom he was 
thoroughly understood in return. He expressed himself with 
enthusiasm on his new composition, the idea of which had been 
in part suggested by Goethe’s Faust. But this did not pre- 
vent him from having in view the composition for the drama 
itself. They talked a long while on these subjects; then 
Director Schindler asked what the good news was to which he 
referred in his note of invitation. 

“Oh, yes,” said Beethoven, “I had almost forgotten it.” 

He jumped up and brought out several letters which he had 
received from London. One was from his pupil, Ferdinand 
Ries, who was then living in England, and had gained quite a 
reputation as a composer. Another was from the Philharmonic 
Society in London. They all contained urgent invitations to 
Beethoven to come as soon as possible to England, offering the 


* Schindler, pp. 159, 160. 


294 


Beethoven ; 


most promising terms, and assuring him that he would be enthu- 
siastically received. The presentation of his great work also 
promised a handsome income. 

“What do you intend to do?” asked Schindler, by means of 
the conversation book. 

“What do I intend to do? ” said Beethoven, and his eyes 
were lighted up with unfathomable depths of feeling. “ Why, 
I shall, by all means, make the journey next autumn, and you, 
Schindler, must accompany me.” 

Schindler joyfully assented. 

“The journey will take us through the provinces of the 
Rhine,” Beethoven continued, — “ I shall see my dear, glorious, 
native land again. In Bonn we can visit Wegeler and his 
wife, — who was once my little scholar, Eleonore Yon Breuning, 
— Father Ries, and the good Simrock. It will be fine, and it 
is an honor to receive the invitation.” 

Schindler nodded assent to the master, but his soul was 
pierced by a deep sorrow. His clear judgment told him that 
nothing would come of this proposed journey, first on account 
of Beethoven’s physical condition, and because bad reports had 
already been circulated about his nephew. 

At this moment Kugler entered and presented a visiting 
card, announcing the Countess Schlafgotsch, an old acquaint- 
ance and admirer of the master. 

Beethoven received her in his little, dark, smoky house, 
where they sat at the unfinished meal with as much ease as if 
he had been in Prince Lichnowsky’s palace. The countess 
found it difficult, it is true, to repress her astonishment at the 
great man’s wretched surroundings, but people were accustomed 
to all sorts of things with Beethoven, and even this might be 
the strange whim of a man of genius. It was only in the 
spring of last year that he left, in the utmost haste, the fine 
suit of rooms which Baron Yon Pronay had assigned to him in 
his beautiful villa at Hetzendorf, simply because the baron 
made too low bows every time he met him.* 

With Beethoven all things were possible. The countess, 
therefore, reconciled herself to this appearance of poverty. Ah, 
she did not dream that this man whom she so much admired 


* A fact. Schindler, p. 132. 


A Biographical Romance. 


295 


could not escape from this wretchedness because he owed a half 
year’s house rent. She could not dream that the dinner, a 
part of which still stood on the table, was paid for with the 
money which the housekeeper had advanced that day. It did 
not occur to anyone to make the future of this extraordinary 
man secure and comfortable. Not a soul in God’s wide world 
thought to keep him free from care, and refresh him for the 
work which they all admired. Beethoven was, indeed, forgot- 
ten by the world, and yet fate had brought him now to one of 
the happiest moments of his life. 

The Countess Schlafgotsch had come from Warmbrunn to 
Silesia; but it was not only the desire to see Beethoven which 
led her to seek out the master; she had brought with her some- 
thing which must be very welcome to him. It was the first 
mass with a new German text, written by Herr Scholz, music- 
director at Silesia. 

When Beethoven heard of this he seized the manuscript has- 
tily, opened it, and ran over the lines. 

A profound silence followed. Schindler and the countess 
looked with loving interest upon the celebrated man, whose 
hair the storms of life had already whitened, on whose stony 
features the marble hand of fate had stamped the impression of 
such a deep and heavy sorrow. 

Beethoven read and read with increasing attention and inter- 
est.. But when he came to the ‘ Qui Tollis,’ the eyes of this 
man, who never wept, suddenly overflowed with tears. He was 
overpowered by his feelings and compelled to stop reading, but 
with his bright eyes turned upward, he cried out : — 

“ Oh, what a remarkably fine text. Yes, that was the way 
I felt when I wrote that.” 

Beethoven remained silent and absorbed for all the rest of 
the day. A new chord in his soul had been touched and 
responded wonderfully. The countess took her leave. Schind- 
ler’s duties called him away, also. Beethoven was alone again, 
and would remain so, undisturbed, — for Vienna had forgotten 
him. 


296 


Beethoven 


THE THREE HATTI-SHERIFS. 


Ludwig Van Beethoven, who had now been deaf ten years, 
had completed his ninth symphony, that gigantic musical 
structure, that wonderful colossus. 

“Renounce, thou shalt renounce!” had been the call of his 
own fate, and had rung in his ears with a wonderful echo from 
Goethe’s greatest work. 

The idea of his ninth symphony was the grandest conception 
of the struggle in his own soul for freedom, light, and divinity 
against the pressure of what is earthly. 

This is the idea of Ludwig Yan Beethoven’s ninth symphony. 
It is the agonizing struggle of a lonely soul for the happiness 
promised at birth to every human being, and the victorious con- 
quest of this happiness by gaining the highest and noblest 
views of life. 

From a musical point of view, this gigantic work is grand. 
But Beethoven had been deaf ten years, and this is spiritual 
music which cannot wholly be comprehended within the domain 
of harmony. 

Unfettered, with world-storming energy, Beethoven, the great 
stormer of the world, laid hold upon what was free and without 
form or measure. 

It is not possible to find a greater contrast than exists between 
this music and Rossini’s; but it is as natural that Rossini’s light, 
flattering melodies should attract the multitude as that Beet- 
hoven’s colossal creations built upon ideas should remain incom- 
prehensible to the masses, — yes, should even repel them. But, 
was it not Beethoven who had introduced this sphinx into the 
world? Was he not, and did he not remain, in all his countless 
creations the great unequalled master of tone? Was he not 
the favorite of Vienna, alike with the nobility and the common 
people ? Why was he now betrayed, and so utterly forsaken ? 

But, no ; there were still hearts in Vienna that felt otherwise. 

Beethoven was sitting at a writing-desk, but not composing. 
His head was resting upon his arm; he was gazing forward 
without stirring, and the lines on his face were painted with 
bitter grief. 


297 


A Biographical Romance. 

He had received a report from his adopted son, and it was 
this report at which he was gazing so sadly. The boy had 
ripened into a young man, — but how little he fulfilled the proud 
hopes which his uncle had rested upon him ? Frivolous to the 
highest degree, he did nothing well, and as, in spite of the strict 
commands of his adopted father, he contrived to keep up secret 
connection with his mother, who provided him with money, 
there was no lack of wild and wanton ways. 

But little attention would have been paid to this effer- 
vescence of youthful spirits, which is founded in human nature, 
if these tricks had not always been mixed with unmistakable 
wickedness and corruption. Complaint after complaint came, 
often of a kind to inflict the deepest and most sensitive wounds 
upon Beethoven’s fatherly heart. 

Such was the report lying before him ; yet the master knew 
that he had left nothing undone to make of his nephew a good 
and useful man. 

Beethoven sacrificed for his nephew everything that he pos- 
sessed. He even starved himself that his nephew might want 
nothing. How hard, how crushing, must have been the 
ingratitude of this loved one, the only member of his family 
who was really dear to him. His brother Johann had long ago 
forfeited his regard if not his brotherly love. 

Beethoven sighed deeply. It seemed as if his heart would 
burst with grief. Entirely forsaken and forgotten by the world, 
he had fixed all his hopes upon his nephew, given him all his 
love, and now this hope was to be destroyed. 

He rose and passed to and fro a few times in his little dark 
room. It seemed almost as if a curse rested upon his head. 

His Julie had left Vienna long ago. Gallenberg, who now 
held the post of foreign ambassador, had determined not to 
return to Vienna. Julie Guicciardi, his grand ideal love, was, 
therefore, irrecoverably lost to him. 

Now, appearances seemed to make it more and more prob- 
able that his last bright hope in life was to fade away. 

Beethoven went to the window, and stood a long while 
absorbed in thought, watching the flight of passing clouds. 
Then with a calmer, braver decision, he went to the table and 
wrote two letters, — a reply to the report, and a letter full of 
affectionate warning to his nephew. 


298 


Beethoven : 


When they were finished, sealed, and directed, he laid the 
pen aside, and a feeling of unutterable loneliness and desolation 
came over him. Beethoven was thinking of death with longing. 

After a half hour, during which the master had been sitting 
there immovable, Kugler came in. He announced that a depu- 
tation was in the front room, waiting to present a document to 
Herr Van Beethoven. 

“Tell them to give the document to you,” said Beethoven, 
sadly. 

“The gentlemen wish to see the Kapell-meister himself,” 
said Kugler, “and receive an answer.” 

“I am not well,” said the master, “and wish to read the 
paper first alone.” 

After a few minutes Kugler brought in the document. The 
deputation had left. 

When Music-Director Schindler entered a few minutes later, 
he found Beethoven with the letter in his hand. 

“ I have just received a memorial,” he said quietly; “ I wish 
you would read it.” And Beethoven stationed himself at the 
window again, and watched the clouds as they hurried on in 
strange and ghost-like forms. The music-director took the paper 
and read : — * • 

“To Herr Ludwig Van Beethoven. 

“ From the wide circle which has gathered about your genius 
at the city of your adoption in wondering admiration, a small 
number of disciples and friends of art come before you today 
to give full but modest expression to their long-cherished desires 
and withheld requests. But as the number bear but a small 
proportion to the multitude of those who acknowledge your 
merit, and what you are to the present and to all coming time, 
so their requests are by no means confined to the few who speak 
in behalf of these hundreds of souls. All these to whom art 
and the realization of their ideals are more than means of pass- 
ing away the time dare maintain that what they desire is 
desired by countless others, and that their requests will be 


* A fact, and the whole memorial is given word for word, as it gives such 
a good idea of Beethoven’s situation at the time.— Schindler, pp. 144-148. 
Marx, Part Second, p. 318. Oulibicheff, p. 81. 


A Biographical Romance. 


299 


repeated aloud and in silence by everyone whose breast is 
inspired with a sense of the divine in music. 

“ It is the wishes of the lovers of native art in particular which 
we bring before you today, for, although the name and creations 
of Beethoven belong to the whole world, and to every land 
where a susceptibility to art exists, yet Austria may call him 
especially her own. Among her people a due sense of the 
great and immortal work which Mozart and Haydn have accom- 
plished in the bosom of their home, for all future time, is not 
yet dead, and they acknowledge with joyful pride that the 
sacred symbols of all that is highest in the realm of spiritual 
music has sprung from native soil. 

“ Therefore, it is all the more painful to them that foreign 
powers have invaded this citadel; that over the mounds of the 
dead, and around the dwelling of the only one of this band that 
is left to us, apparitions which can boast no connection with the 
princely spirits of the house have been leading their ghostly 
dance; that falsehood has misused the names and symbols of 
art; and that this unworthy sport with what is holy has dimmed 
and effaced the sense of truth and everlasting beauty. 

“ Therefore, they feel more earnestly than ever that the one 
thing needful at this moment is a new impulse from more 
powerful hands, a new appearance of the sovereign within his 
own domain. It is this necessity which brings them to you 
today; and in behalf of all to whom these desires are precious, 
and in the name of native art, they address to you the following 
requests : — 

“ Withhold no longer from the public enjoyment, withhold no 
longer from our offended sense of what is great and perfect, the 
performance of your master-pieces. 

“We know that a fine composition in church music has been 
composed to succeed that in which you have immortalized the 
sensations of a soul penetrated by the power of faith, and illu- 
mined by the light of the spiritual world. 

“We know that a new flower has bloomed in the wreath of 
your glorious and incomparable symphonies. 

“For years, since the thunder of the victory of Yittoria has 
died away, we have been waiting and hoping to see you lavish- 
ing upon your friends new gifts from the fullness of your riches. 

“ Do not disappoint any longer the expectations of the public. 


300 


Beethoven : 


Enhance the impression of your latest creation by the pleasure 
of first becoming acquainted with it through you. Do not suf- 
fer the youngest offering of your genius to he introduced one 
day to their birth-place by strangers, perhaps by those who are 
strangers to your name and spirit Appear as soon as possible 
among your friends, your worshipers, and admirers. 

“ This is our first and most urgent request. But other claims 
upon your genius have also been publicly made. 

“ The wishes which were expended, and the offers which were 
made, more than a year ago by the managers of the court opera, 
and afterwards by the Society of Austrian Lovers of Music, 
had been too long the unexpressed wish of all venerators of the 
tone art, and of your name, and excited too many hopes and 
expectations not to have been quickly known far and near, and 
to have awakened the most general interest. Poetry has done 
her part in sustaining these bright hopes. Worthy material 
from an esteemed poet’s hand waits for your magic fancy to 
give it life. 

“ Do not permit this earnest summons to such noble work to 
be heard in vain. Delay no longer to transport us back to 
those departed days when Polyhymnia’s song touched and 
delighted the hearts of the multitude as well as the consecrated 
priests of art. 

“ Shall we tell with what deep regret we have long been filled 
by your retired mode of life ? Is it necessary to assure you 
that, when all eyes were turned in hope to you, all perceived 
with sorrow that the man whom we called, in his dominion, the 
highest among the living looked on in silence while foreign art 
encamped on German ground in the seat of the muses, German 
works were heard with an echo of foreign style, and a second 
childhood in taste threatened to follow the golden age of art ? 

“You alone are able to secure a decided victory to the efforts 
of the best among us. The German Art Union and the Ger- 
man opera call for new flowers of art, renewed life, and a new 
reign of the true and the beautiful over the power which threat- 
ens to subject even the eternal laws of art to the fashion of the 
day. 

“ Permit us to hope that the wishes of all who have been pene- 
trated by your harmonies will now be fulfilled. 

“ This is our second and most urgent request. 


301 


A Biographical Romance. 

“ May the year which has begun not end until we have rejoiced 
in the fruit of our entreaties ; and may the unfolding of one of 
these long-wished-for gifts become for us and for the whole 
world an occasion of double promise. 

“Vienna, February, 1824. 

(Signed.) Prince Karl Lichnowsky,” et als. 

Schindler had finished. His eyes were radiant with delight. 
Beethoven, too, was deeply moved. 

“ It is very beautiful, is it not ? It gives me great pleasure,” 
he said, turning to his friend. 

Schindler nodded assent, and wrote in the conversation book 
that Beethoven must be convinced that he would have sufficient 
support if he should decide to give a concert at which his latest 
work should be performed. 

“ What ! ” cried Beethoven, after reading what his friend had 
written. “ They do not want me any longer. I am not fit for 
the age of ballets and roulades. Rossini! Rossini! is the 
watchword. Away into the lumber-room with Beethoven and 
Sebastian Bach! We want no ideas, no depth, no greatness. 
Mozart may be thrown away with them. Rossini and his rab- 
ble are to live ! Bo you know,” said Beethoven, turning to 
Schindler, with a bitter laugh, “do you know, my dear friend, 
what would have made a fine composer of Rossini?” 

“What?” 

“If his teacher had given him a shilling a little oftener.” * 

“You see from the memorial,” Schindler wrote, “with what 
earnest longing the performance of Beethoven’s work is 
expected.” 

“By a few people,” said Beethoven, sorrowfully. “What 
does that amount to ? — and what can I have performed, — the 
Fidelio? They cannot give that, and do not wish to hear it.” 

“ Symphonies,” wrote Schindler. 

“No, no,” said Beethoven, decidedly. “The public lives 
mid a confusion of superficial ideas. The spirit of the musi- 
cian is changed, and neither is any longer susceptible to any- 
thing great.” 


* Beethoven’s own words. Schindler, p. 138. By shilling in South Ger- 
many is meant a kind of blow. 


302 


Beethoven i 


Beethoven was silent, and read the paper again; then he 
said quietly, “ Let us go out into the open air.” 

What intrigues, what obstacles, now presented themselves 
when Beethoven yielded at last to his friends and admirers. 
Music-Birector Schindler, to whom Beethoven entrusted the 
arrangement of the whole affair, was scarcely able, in spite of 
his ardent zeal, to overcome all these plots and machinations. 
The performance was to take place at the court theatre, at the 
Karnthner Thor. But how was it possible to harmonize the 
claims of the manager and Schindler’s demands? It was like 
bringing together flint and steel. There were constant sparks, 
but no yielding on either side. 

Weeks passed, and no conclusion was reached. Beethoven’s 
friends wrote, talked, and worked on day and night with the 
noblest and purest enthusiasm in their hearts, — it came to noth- 
ing. 

In order to secure the co-operation of one of the contracting 
parties, Beethoven himself, Schindler endeavored to meet Count 
Lichnowsky and Herr Schuppanzigh at Beethoven’s house at 
the same time, but the meeting must appear accidental to Beet- 
hoven. 

The plan succeeded finely. Half in jest and half in earnest, 
Beethoven was induced to give a list of his plans and to sign 
the agreement. 

The friends secretly rejoiced. They had succeeded in bring- 
ing Beethoven’s name and fame before Vienna and the world 
again ; they were on the point of obtaining a rich pecuniary 
testimonial to the master, — then — Beethoven suspected what 
they were doing. His suspicious nature, made much worse by 
ten years of deafness, and by the sad experience of his life, was 
alert. Where there had been nothing but the truest and purest 
love and care, he saw falsehood and treachery, and, in almost 
feverish excitement, tills man, usually so great and glorious, 
wrote the following sultan-like hatti-sherifs ; — 

“To the Count Moritz Von Lichnowsky. 

“ Falsehood I despise. Visit me no more. The concert will 
not take place. Beethoven.” 


303 


A Biographical Romance. 

“To Herr Schuppanzigh. 

“ Visit me no more. I shall give no concert. 

Beethoven.” 

“To Herr Schindler. 

“Do not visit me again till I send for you. No concert. 

Beethoven.”* 


ENTIRELY ALONE. 

The establishment of the platonic republic had always been 
Beethoven’s most earnest desire, and his world had never been 
anything else than a world of ideas - He did not wish the pla- 
tonic republic to come gradually, but to be established by 
Napoleon, for there was something Napoleonic in him. As, how- 
ever, instead of finding his ideas realized, he was always com- 
ing in collision with men’s coolness and moderation, his natural 
spirit of defiance, and the unfortunate physical affliction by 
which he was wholly excluded from society, produced a bitter- 
ness of feeling which led him into many strange mistakes. 

In this lies the explanation of the three sultanic hatti-sherifs 
to Count Lichnowsky, Schuppanzigh, and Schindler. But had 
not these three men long known this poor, deaf Beethoven, 
whom fate had so tortured. They knew him well, and their 
love and reverence made them overcome even these authorita- 
tive commands. 

Schindler himself says, “But Beethoven did not send with 
these the silken cord, consequently we all three remained alive, 
let his anger die out, and went on supporting each other in 
doing what was for his best interest.” 

So the concert really took place. The hall was crowded, the 
gross receipts 2,220 florins, of which, subtracting 1000 for the 
hall, and 800 for the copying, there remained for Beethoven 
the miserable sum of 420 florins. Every box was crammed, 
with the single exception of the emperor’s, which remained 
vacant, t 

* A fact. Schindler, pp. 151, 152. t Schindler, p. 153. 


304 


Beethoven : 


When the concert was repeated, the hall was only half full, 
so that the managers had to pay 800 florins out of their own 
pockets. The applause with which Vienna received the Italian 
Signor David when he sang the favorite cavatina ‘ Di tantipal- 
piti ’ was loud in proportion. 

Beethoven was deeply hurt, and fell iuto such a disagreeable 
humor that he was scarcely approachable by anyone. But 
even this was not enough for Johann Van Beethoven. His 
wickedness must crush his brother still more ; he must make 
the unfortunate man even more wretched. Ludwig had a 
friend and admirer who often stood in the way of the ‘ land- 
owner’s ’ selfish purposes, whose influence upon the master he 
feared. This man was Music-Director Schindler. 

What did Johann do? He caused Schindler, this good and 
noble man, so full of enthusiasm and devotion, to be suspected 
of having cheated the latter at the first concert. With diabolical 
wickedness, Johann sowed this poisonous seed in the dark soil 
of Ludwig’s displeasure. He knew that the demon of suspi- 
cion, which is the curse of deafness, would bring it to maturity. 

At a dinner-party, which Beethoven gave a few days after- 
wards to the two directors of his concert, Kapell-meister Um- 
lauf and Schuppanzigh, at which Schindler was also present, 
he could no longer restrain his anger, but declared that he had 
been informed that Schindler, in conjunction with the manager, 
Herr Dupert, had cheated him. 

Schindler was stunned. Such an insult, in return for so 
much love and self-sacrifice, was unheard of. In vain Umlauf 
and Schuppanzigh endeavored to convince him that every piece 
of money had passed through the hands of the two cashiers of 
the theatre, and their accounts of the receipts exactly corre- 
sponded. A fraud on either side was out of the question. 
Beethoven, controlled by the demon suspicion, and excited to 
the highest degree by J ohann, would not take back his accusa- 
tion, so Schindler rose indignantly and withdrew.* 

Beethoven had trifled away this friend also. As Johann 
wished, he stood now entirely alone in the world. 


*This incident will serve to show what it was to be Beethoven’s friend. 
Schindler, pp. 157, 158. 


A Biographical Romance . 


305 


AUTUMN BREEZES. 

Two years passed, and the world heard almost nothing of 
Beethoven. He had hired pleasant rooms in the previous 
spring at Penzig, near Schönbrunn, but he had been there 
almost as little as anywhere else. The room was bright and 
sunny, and pleased the strange, deaf, gloomy old man, but 
there was one important objection. The beautiful country 
house which Beethoven hired was situated close by the river, 
not far from a small foot-bridge. When the report spread 
abroad in Penzig that the strange, deaf man with the sombre 
face, the gray hair hanging in confusion about his head, the 
simple almost shabby dress, who wandered about so absorbed 
in thought, — 'that this was the celebrated Beethoven, — people, 
attracted by curiosity, and knowing that the great master 
always came over the bridge, stationed themselves there often 
in crowds to see him. 

After three weeks, Ludwig Van Beethoven was so annoyed 
by their staring that he left Penzig, and hired a house for the 
summer in Baden. Four hundred florins had been paid in 
advance for the house in Penzig. But spring and summer 
fled away, like youth, and the fruitful period of life had van- 
ished; when the winter came on, Beethoven was attacked by a 
severe illness. 

It was fortunate now that he was reconciled again with 
Stephan Yon Breuning and Music-Birector Schindler. Beet- 
hoven’s characteristic readiness to acknowledge his hastiness, 
and his earnest efforts to make good his faults, were proofs that 
he had, on the whole, a noble soul. Schindler, even more than 
Breuning, could forget and love again, when his musical nat- 
ure was touched by such warm reverence and devotion. 

How terribly lonesome the old man would have been — sick, 
deaf, driven almost to despair by his unhappy fate — if this 
friend had not stood by his side, if his faithful old Frau Schnaps 
and Kugler had not stayed with him, with touching love and 
loyalty, in spite of his severe treatment. 

These few who were near Beethoven were compelled to bow 
before his overwhelming greatness, for, in spite of his many 
weaknesses and peculiarities, he stood in the battle with fate, 
20 


306 


Beethoven : 


like one of those old kings and knights, of whom the legend 
relates “ He fought until the last man in the whole hostile army 
fell, and the last drop of his own blood streamed from a thou- 
sand gaping wounds.” » 

Beethoven was great in every respect, even if he had not 
been without a rival as a musician, for he was one of the few 
strong characters who have the courage to struggle with fate, 
man to man, without weariness or cowardly submission. 

Surely, none had more need than he to struggle with fate. 
Two heavy blows now fell upon him with terrible weight. 

Early in the year 1824, Beethoven received from a Russian 
Prince, Nicholas Von Galitzin, a very flattering letter, with the 
request, on acceptable terms, to write and dedicate to him one 
or two instrumental quartettes. This was followed by a second 
letter of similar purport ; and, wonderful to relate, as, according 
to the story, certain serpents charm their victims by a look, so 
Beethoven, usually impenetrable to flattery, seemed to be held, 
yes, charmed, by the Russian prince. He at once left an ora- 
torio which he had begun, and hastened to respond to the 
prince’s wish. 

Before the first two quartettes were finished, Galitzin requested 
a third, and so fascinated Beethoven that he thought no more 
of the oratorio nor of the tenth symphony, nor of that work 
which had been the highest purpose of his life, the key-stone, as 
it were, of his artistic work, — this task was no other than that 
of setting Goethe’s Faust to music. So the master laid all 
these plans aside, that he might devote himself the more exclu- 
sively to finishing the quartettes. 

Prince Nicholas Yon Galitzin had promised to pay Beethoven 
one hundred and twenty-five ducats. 

Time passed ; the quartettes were sent off ; but the master, 
who was the more in need of money, as the education of his 
nephew consumed immense sums, received from St. Petersburg 
nothing but letters with inquiries on certain disputed or doubt- 
ful points in the quartettes, with enthusiastic praises and hearty 
greetings. Of money there followed not a ruble. 

Then came sickness, and Beethoven’s «financial difficulties 
increased. At last Beethoven asked the prince for his money, 
informing him of his straightened circumstances, but not a 
word of reply followed. Beethoven wrote again, at the samo 


307 


A Biographical Romance. 

time requesting the Austrian ambassador and Steiglitz’s bank- 
ing-house in St. Petersburg, in separate letters, to use their 
influence with the prince. 

No reply either from the prince or from the ambassador. 
At last a letter came from the banking-house to the effect that 
Prince Nicholas Yon Galitzin had just gone to the Persian army 
without leaving any orders that Beethoven should be paid. 

This was a new and painful blow. Beethoven was even 
more grieved by the shameful conduct, by the abuse of confi- 
dence, by the cowardly manner of the theft, than by the pecu- 
niary loss, though he was sorely in need of money at the time. 
But what was all this in comparison with the stroke of fate 
which was now to come upon him. 

After a long sickness, Beethoven was beginning to recover, 
slowly, it is true, and sadly,. for he was bowed with anxiety 
about his nephew. This anxiety was of two kinds; first, about 
the course which the youth was pursuing, and then as to the 
means of meeting the expense not only of his education but 
also of his dissipated habits. 

When Beethoven found that he was cheated out of the pay 
for the quartettes, he had to try, first of all, to find some new 
source of income. He, therefore, made an agreement with the 
Brothers Scott, musical publishers in Mainz, by which these 
gentlemen were to pay him for the Grand Mass and the ninth 
symphony 600 florins, and 260 ducats in addition for five other 
works. So the master found himself all at once in possession 
of more than 300 florins, a sum which might have kept him for 
a long while above all the annoyances of poverty. But what 
did Beethoven do? 

He said to himself, “You have adopted this nephew as your 
son, you must, therefore, care for him like a father, even though 
he rewards all your love and kindness, as he has done, with rude 
ingratitude.” And Beethoven invested the whole sum quietly 
in state bonds, considering these and all the money he had laid 
aside for his nephew as no longer his own property, but as the 
inheritance of his adopted son. 

Great and noble heart ! no one saw this act ; no one knew 
of it until the moment when that heart ceased to beat ; but thou 
hadst thy satisfaction and reward in the consciousness of duty 
fulfilled. 


308 


Beethoven : 


How did the nephew reward him ? Beethoven had given 
the boy an education which might better have fitted the son of 
a prince. To Beethoven’s great delight, the boy, who was 
endowed with extraordinary talent, developed both physically 
and mentally with surprising rapidity. 

Beethoven’s whole heart now clung to his protegee. The 
master’s last earthly hope in his loneliness rested upon this last 
descendant of his family, the representative of the noble name. 
The youth’s happiness was his happiness. For him he saved, 
for him he starved himself. What pleasure Beethoven took in 
raising up for the world a great and good man, — a character 
firm, open, full of truth and manly virtue. 

But, alas, it soon became evident that here, too, misfortune 
was to fall upon the master. The young man’s character at 
once took a distorted shape, and frivolousness, craftiness, and 
untruth were his most prominent characteristics. From the 
very beginning of the suit he had passed continually from hand 
to hand, changing constantly his mode of education, spoiled at 
one time by his uncle’s love, then systematically trained to 
craftiness and untruth by secret intercourse with his mother. 
Accustomed to extravagance through having too much money, 
and, more recently, when he was attending the course of lec- 
tures on philosophy at the university, made too early independ- 
ent by Beethoven’s indulgence and confidence, the nephew hur- 
ried on to utter ruin. 

Bragging of his uncle’s great kindness, excited against his 
benefactor by his mother’s diabolical lust for revenge, he abused 
his freedom more and more from day to day, neglecting his 
studies, and, with rebellious ingratitude, bidding utter defiance 
to Beethoven’s decided wish that he should have no intercourse 
with his mother. 

This conduct stabbed Beethoven’s soul like a two-edged sword. 
Crushed with grief, the deaf old man, alone in the world, who 
had scarcely recovered from a severe illness, wrote from Baden 
to the youth who had so utterly disappointed him : — 

“Hitherto it has been only a matter of conjecture, though 
everyone has assured me that you are once more holding 
secret intercourse with your mother. Am I again to experi- 
ence this horrible ingratitude ? Shall the bond between us be 


309 


A Biographical Romance. 

severed ? So be it then. You will be despised by all impar- 
tial people who shall hear of your ingratitude. Am I to be 
forced to entangle myself again in these abominations? No, 
never again. Is my love oppressive to you ? In God’s name, 
my old heart, wounded by the countless blows of fate, will sur- 
vive even this hardest blow of all. So be it, — it longs for rest, 
which it will soon find. I leave you to Divine Providence. I 
have done my part. With joyful courage I can stand before 
the Supreme Judge of all. God has never forsaken me. Some- 
one will be found to close my eyes. 

I know that it is no pleasure to you to be with me, — of course 
not. The atmosphere is too pure for you. You need not 
come on Sunday, for your conduct is inconsistent with true har- 
mony and concord. What is the use of this hypocrisy ? Rather 
throw off the cloak. You need not deceive me or hide your- 
self from me. Candor is better for your character in the end 
than the falsehood in which you deck yourself. 

Oh, my son ! My lost son ! If you knew the unutterable 
pain with which I write this, — thus you are reflected in me ! 

But of what use are loving admonitions ? You will be angry 
in any case. But be not anxious. I shall care for you always 
as I have done. 

“Farewell. He who has not, indeed, given you life, but the 
support of life, and, what is more than all else, the culture of 
your mind, with a fatherly, yes, more than a fatherly, care, 
earnestly entreats you once more to return to the right path, — 
the path of goodness and truth. 

Your good and faithful father.” 

Twenty-four hours after this letter was mailed, Beethoven 
received the information that, on account of frivolousness, 
neglect of study, and immorality, his nephew had been expelled 
from the university. 


A GREAT MAN. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven sat at home in what is called the 
Schwarzpanier house, situated on the glacis of the suburb of 
Wahring. It suited him well, had plenty of sunshine, and com- 


310 


Beethoven : 


manded an extensive and agreeable prospect over tbe city and 
several suburbs. 

But tbe pleasant view for tbe great Beethoven was, alas, 
only outside ; within, all was dark and gloomy. His tragic 
fate was moving slowly on to its fulfillment. 

What terrible suffering Beethoven’s nephew had recently 
brought upon him. The news that his nephew had been 
expelled from the university on account of dissipation, neglect 
of study, and immorality had come like a thunder-bolt upon 
Beethoven’s head. So his name, of which he thought so 
much, which he had made so great and glorious, the purity of 
which had always been his pride, was disgraced a second time. 
All the high hopes which he had fixed upon his nephew, so for- 
tunately endowed by nature, were utterly destroyed. He had 
lived to see that the sacrifices which he had joyfully made for 
this dear boy had been in vain. Love and kindness, his ear- 
nest entreaties and warnings, had been of no avail. An unut- 
terable grief was consuming the master’s soul. Ilis eyes sank 
deeper into their sockets, the lines on his face grew sharper, his 
form was thinner and more withered. 

But Beethoven’s spirit remained strong, his heart unchanged 
in its greatness and its love. When his nephew wrote to him 
again, full of repentance, the master replied as follows : — 

“ My dear son, — No more of this. Come to my arms. You 
shall not hear a hard word. Oh, God, go not away in your 
misery. You will be lovingly received. We will talk over 
again, affectionately, what is to be done in the future. I give 
you my word of honor that there will be no reproaches, since 
they would now be useless. You may expect from me only 
the most loving care and assistance. Only come. Come to 
your father’s faithful heart. Beethoven.” 

“ Only be obedient to me, and affection, peace of mind, and 
worldly prosperity will be our united lot. You will enjoy an 
inward and spiritual as well as a material existence. But let 
the former be preferred to the latter. 

“ A thousand times I embrace and kiss you, not my lost but 
my new-born nephew. For you, my restored child, will your 
affectionate father ever care.* Beethoven.” 

* The original letter word for word. Schindler, pp. 175, 176. 


A Biographical Romance. 311 

What magnanimity T What an inexhaustible fountain of 
precious love in this torn and tortured breast! 

When the nephew was required to work up several old exami- 
nations, he ended by attempting to take his own life. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven’s heart had received its death blow 
from the only person whom he loved on earth. 

The attempt failed, it is true, but, according to the laws of 
the land, the young man fell into the hands of justice as a sui- 
cide, since the law maintains that nothing but want of religion 
can lead to sa violent a step. Malefactors of this kind are, 
therefore, placed in strict confinement by the state, that they 
may receive the necessary religious training. Thus it was with 
Beethoven’s nephew. 

In the month of October, 1826, the time was drawing near 
when Beethoven expected to receive his nephew to his care 
again. He could not have him in Vienna, nor did he wish to 
do so, and his brother Johann offered his country-house to Lud- 
wig and his nephew for a temporary residence until Hof rath 
Von Breuning, who had now been appointed by the government, 
should succeed in providing for the latter some other abode. 

It was a sad day when Ludwig drove in a hired carriage 
toward his brother’s house. He had asked Johann to send his 
close carriage, but the ‘land-owner’ wrote in reply, “A hired 
carriage will do. My horses are sick and need rest.” 

Ludwig Van Beethoven quietly laid aside this reply from 
the man who owed all he was and all he possessed to him. The 
blows of fate had gradually made him indifferent to such things. 
He lived shut up in his inmost self, and this last heavy burden, 
which was crushing his heart, had made him insensible to all 
other pain. Besides, he always looked upon the little mean- 
nesses of the ex-apothecary as constant proofs of his lack of 
self-respect and his pitiable spiritual darkness. 

As we have said, the day was dull and unpleasant A 
chilly autumn mist covered the fields, cutting off the distant 
prospect, while the dampness of the air gradually penetrated 
the master’s clothes so completely as to make him shiver. 

Beethoven covered himself up more closely, and lay back in 
the comer of the carriage. As was his habit, when he wished 
to escape unpleasant thoughts, he concentrated all his intel- 
lectual strength upon one of his musical creations. Today he 


312 


Beethoven . 


was thinking over his latest work, composed immediately after 
his illness, — the quartette No. 12, with the remarkable adagio , 

* Canzona di ringraziamente in modo lidico offerta alia Divin- 
itd da un guarito .’ 

Beethoven was soon so absorbed in intellectual work that the 
world wholly vanished, and pain and sorrow were entirely gone. 
It was late at night when he reached the house, but, when the 
carriage stopped in front of the elegant mansion, no one but the 
servant was there to receive him. Brother Johann informed 
him by a note, which the servant delivered, that he had gone 
with his family to a ball in the neighborhood, and that his room 
was ready. 

What more did Beethoven need ? He was tired, and was 
glad to have a good bed and be comfortable in one of the beau- 
tiful rooms of which his brother Johann had so many. But 
what is this? 

“ Where are you taking me?” asked the master of the serv- 
ant, who was lighting the new-comer across the yard with a 
lantern. 

The servant pointed to the house near, usually occupied by 
the gardener. 

“ What ! ” cried Beethoven, bluntly, “ he does not know me.” 

“Why not?” growled the servant lazily, going on without 
turning round. 

“ Do you hear ! ” cried Beethoven again, “ what have I to do 
with the gardener?” 

This, also, was fruitless. The man with the light went on to 
the small house, opened the door, and, when he saw that Beet- 
hoven did not follow him, he put the lantern on the ground, 
leaned against the door-post, and whistled a tune while he 
waited for Beethoven to come. 

In the meantime, the master, angry at the man’s stupidity, 
had gone toward the door of the house. It was locked. He 
rang the bell, but no one came. The servants had taken advant- 
age of the family’s absence and gone to a dance at the tavern 
in the neighborhood. 

Formerly, under such circumstances, Beethoven would have 
gone on foot to Vienna without more ado, if it had taken all 
night. This idea really occurred to him now, but he felt that 
his strength was not sufficient. Besides, the cold night wind 


A Biographical Romance. 313 

felt so sharp through his wet clothes that he began to tremble 
from head to foot. What could he do? 

Beethoven suppressed an outcry at this affectionate, brotherly 
reception, and went to the gardener’s house. When the serv- 
ant saw him coming, he took up his lantern lazily, and went up 
the narrow steps leading to the gardener’s rooms. The master 
followed. When they were up stairs, the guide entered, lit a 
lamp, let the master in, and went away whistling. 

The master looked around. Could it be that this low, 
plainly-furnished room was intended for him ? There was a 
bed made up, and here on the table the supper was served, — a 
little butter, bread and cheese, a plate with five thin slices of 
sausage, and a bottle of good small beer. 

Ludwig Van Beethoven said nothing. It seemed as if a 
marble hand had crushed his heart with a single grasp. Then 
a strange feeling came over him. He was home-sick for his 
own room in Vienna, a home-sickness which went deeper and 
deeper for everlasting rest and everlasting forgetfulness. 

Beethoven left the supper untouched and went to bed. When 
he rose the next morning and went to the window he saw his 
brother’s fine, comfortable equipage before the door of the 
house. A few minutes later Johann himself came into his 
room. 

He was a pompous-looking man, and looked as if he did not 
know the meaning of the word care. His red face shone with 
pride, as if he would say, “ Bid I not tell you long ago that you 
would never get along in the world as 1 have,” and the mali- 
cious smile around the ex-apothecary’s mouth was sufficient 
comment on this question. 

He nodded graciously to his brother. 

“ Good morning, Johann,” said the latter, seriously and qui- 
etly. 

“I am going to get Louis now,” Johann wrote on the sheet 
of paper which he had brought. 

“In the close carriage?” asked Beethoven. 

The ‘ land-owner ’ assented. 

“ I thought the horses were sick.” 

“They are well again,” Johann wrote. 

“ Bemarkable ! ” said Ludwig. “Why am I stuck here in 
this miserable hole, in the gardener’s house, while you have 
plenty of comfortable rooms vacant in your own house ? ” 


314 


Beethoven : 


“ Because you ruin every decent room with your bathing, 
and your other disorderly habits,” wrote Johann. 

“ I thought that my brother, the ‘ land-owner,’ owed the house 
and everything in it to me, so I should think that I at least 
deserved ” 

Johann turned and left the room without saying a word. 
Two minutes later the carriage rolled out of the beautiful gar- 
den, which was adorned with all kinds of birds. 

Louis was to meet his uncle half way. When the ‘ land- 
owner,’ Johann Van Beethoven, had received his nephew, they 
drove slowly back. 

Louis was beaming with joy at being released from his impris- 
onment. Leaning back comfortably in one corner of the ele- 
gant carriage, smoking a fine cigar, he gave himself up with 
quiet delight to the enjoyment of which he had so long been 
deprived, while he entertained his uncle with a description of 
the efforts which had been made by the ministers during his 
time of correction to make him pious and holy. Louis was 
running over with wit and sarcasm, which he also applied to the 
anticipated meeting with his uncle Ludwig, his ‘ old growler.’ 

“ The affair must be managed nicely,” said the ‘ land-owner.’ 
“ The old man is a fool, with whom it is not necessary to have 
much ceremony. His eccentricity has gradually become insan- 
ity, as everybody knows, and as his latest compositions most 
strikingly prove.” 

“I knew that long ago,” answered the nephew, with indiffer- 
ence. 

“ Then he must be treated like a weak-minded man,” Johann 
continued. “ You cannot do better than to assent to his way of 
thinking, and, as he has always been an idealist, an enthusiast 
for virtue, an impractical fanatic, I think it will be as well for 
you to be an enthusiast for virtue. It will certainly be some- 
thing new for you. Play the penitent, throw yourself on his 
neck, swear to be a saint, and you will see that his heart will 
be touched again, and he will beg you himself to forget the 
whole affair.” 

That is very tedious.” 

“ But it is the best way to pass the matter over quietly.” 

“ There will be a family scene at the end.” 

“I have looked out for that. He is lodged in the next 
house.” 


A Biographical Romance. 


315 


“Excellent,” cried Louis, laughing. “Did he not rave 
because you did not put him in the chamber of state? ” 

“ He was on the point of doing so, but I turned my back on 
him and left him alone. Then he grew tame.” 

“Will our meeting be without witnesses?” 

“ Of course.” 

“Well, I will follow your advice, uncle, but let us talk 
about something else now. The subject disgusts me.” 

So the conversation took another turn. Louis asked if no 
news had come from his mother. Johann said that they knew 
nothing about her. 

Then the lieutenancy has not come yet, thought the nephew. 
The young man was so frivolous that, whenever it was in his 
power, he always threw aside whatever was in the least disa- 
greeable. 

That a comfortable meal should not be lost on account of 
this painful meeting, they stopped at the last inn before they 
came to the country seat. The dinner had been previously 
ordered, and it tasted very good to the two travellers. Louis 
was in paradise, and Johann, who liked good company, almost 
laughed himself sick over the merriment of the youth who had 
so long devoted himself to prayer and penitence. 

But at last the dinner was over, and the fatal step must be 
taken. 

With what gentle earnestness, what grand self-denial, what 
inexhaustible love and kindness, Ludwig met his nephew, who 
seemed to be so crushed with penitence. No reproaches passed 
his lips. Nothing could be altered now, and he only wished to 
comfort, encourage, and cheer the man who had fallen so low, 
but who was, apparently, so sadly humbled. Beethoven never 
seemed so great, so complete a man. With a magnanimity 
truly astonishing, he had forgotten all the innumerable injuries, 
erased from his memory all the crying ingratitude, borne all 
the nameless sufferings which his adopted son had brought upon 
him. 

Here was shown the fruit of a weary, struggling life, the 
result of an untiring reverence for the greatness of antiquity, 
the submission of a soul quietly striving for moral perfection. 

Then came over Beethoven at this moment a blissful and 
uplifting sensation, very unexpected and unusual. It seemed 


316 


Beethoven : 


to him as if his soul widened to infinity, as if his mind looked 
into the depths of eternal wisdom, as if his heart embraced all 
humanity. He laid his hand gently on his nephew’s shoulder, 
took Louis’ right hand in the other, pressed it gently, and 
said : — 

“ Let this end the matter. But remember, my son, it is not 
enough to make good resolutions. Resolutions, to be good, to 
be active, to improve, and to do work which demands improve- 
ment, must not only be formed but must be kept. Better to 
fail in many things than to neglect all. A man who does any- 
thing has a certain merit. He who constantly refuses to act 
has none at all. The latter class is immensely large. They 
are weary souls, inactive dreamers, who, for this very reason, 
are never happy. 

“Understand, I do not wish you to renounce any innocent 
pleasures, any agreeable feeling. You shall be denied nothing 
which nature intended for you. Far be from me that foolish 
and unnatural desire to destroy man, that by my absurd effort 
I may get a god out of the ruins. 

“ All I ask, my son, is moderation ; and this for no other rea- 
son than because it is indispensable if I would keep you from 
pain and repentance. Nothing deserves the name of pleasure 
which is combined with the unhappiness of others, or the 
reproaches of your own soul. Let your heart and intellect 
share the pleasures of the senses, and let the senses have a 
share in the pleasures of the heart and of the intellect. Man, 
related on the one side to the beasts of the field, and on the 
other to divinity, is as incapable of being a mere animal as of 
being a mere spirit. 

“ He lives according to his nature and destiny only when he is 
constantly progressing; every step in wisdom and virtue which 
he ascends increases his true happiness within and without.” 

Beethoven ceased, and left the youth with a warm, tender 
pressure of the hand. 

When Louis closed the door behind him he laughed boldly, 
but a voice within called to him : — 

“For shame, worthless man. What a miserable contrast to 
this grand soul.” 

How was it with Beethoven? His heart was calm and 
happy once more. 


A Biographical Romance. 


317 


The consciousness of one’s own goodness is a blessed feeling. 
Be noble, and it will be well with you. The storms of life 
will not frighten you. Safe and serene, you shall wander 
through the paths of night, and misfortune itself can only exalt 
the majesty of your soul. 


WORTHLESSNESS. 

Since, according to law, Louis could not enter Vienna again, 
it was decided that Ludwig Van Beethoven should remain 
some time at his brother’s country seat. Meanwhile, Hof rath 
Von Breuning, the new guardian, was using all his influence 
on the one side to repeal this decree, and, on the other hand, 
since the nephew insisted upon being a soldier, to interest Lieu- 
tenant Field-Marshal Stutterheim to give him a cadet’s position 
in his regiment. 

A letter from Stephan Von Breuning brought the news that 
both attempts had been successful. Beethoven was very much 
pleased, and showed his gratitude to the lieutenant field-marshal 
by dedicating to him his great quartette in C sharp minor. 

But the stars were adverse to Beethoven, and it was not 
decreed that a pleasant light should brighten the evening of his 
life. From the day of his arrival, this nephew seemed to be as 
neglectful of him as his brother Johann, and it grieved him 
still more deeply to see that his nephew’s good resolutions were 
so poorly kept. Instead of devoting himself somewhat to his 
affectionate foster-father, the youth troubled himself very little 
about the old man or his own future, but went roving about the 
country day after day with his uncle. 

The ‘land-owner’s’ elegant carriage was constantly on the 
road with these two, and often did not bring them back till late 
at night. 

If Beethoven ventured to utter a word of warning the next 
morning, Louis followed his uncle Johann’s example and turned 
his back upon him, leaving the lonely, deaf man to his silent 
grief. 


318 


Beethoven : 


More than this, Johann seemed to be making every effort to 
drive his brother Ludwig back to the city as soon as possible. 
Ilis thoughtlessness of his elder brother and benefactor was 
incredible. The autumn weather was so intolerable that Lud- 
wig Van Beethoven could not remain at the country seat. He 
told his brother this frankly, and, as he was not feeling well, 
being bowed with the grief which weighed upon him, and which 
he buried deep in his heart, and was thus unable to make the 
journey in one day, he asked Johann to take him to Vienna in 
his close carriage. A dark frown came upon Johann’s forehead. 

“I can’t do it,” was the reply. “The roads are too bad. 
My carriage will be ruined. You can go in my old carriage.” 

“ But that is open,” answered Beethoven. “ The weather is 
horrible, and I am not well.” 

“It is a whim,” Johann wrote. “ Nothing but imagination. 
You can have my cloak, too.” 

When Beethoven read these words he was at first unable to 
speak, but his eyes flashed so terribly that Johann turned pale. 

“ Give me a pedlar’s cart, for aught I care,” cried Ludwig, 
in tones of thunder, “but I wish it to be brought immediately, 
for I will not tread the same floor with you another hour, and 
Louis shall go too.” 

A half hour later the old open wagon drove up in front of 
the gardener’s house. Without a word of farewell, without a 
look at his nephew, who had angrily yielded to his uncle’s 
command, Ludwig got in. The coachman, the same one who 
had received Ludwig, whipped up the horses, and away they 
went to Vienna. Beethoven’s countenance was like marble. 

When he arrived at Vienna he felt sick. A terrible cough 
threatened to choke him. 

Four days had passed since Beethoven’s return to Vienna. 
His illness had not diminished, but increased, and — the mas- 
ter was alone. 

Alone! — for Kugler lay in the hospital. His nephew went 
out regularly every morning after breakfast, and did not return 
till night. Schindler and Breuning did not yet know of the 
master’s arrival ; and though Frau Schnaps, who had grown old 
and infirm, still clung to her poor master with the same faith- 
fulness and self-sacrificing love, it was beginning to be hard for 
her to serve him, and her duties kept her busy in the kitchen 
and about her housekeeping. 


A Biographical Romance. 


319 


Beethoven was alone ! — and he remained so, for he could 
not go out any longer. At one time his limbs were shaken 
with chills, and these were followed by violent and long-contin- 
ued headaches, accompanied with all the symptoms of fever. 
He had, also, a feeling of pressure, more particularly on his 
breast. Frequent, quick coughs, with sharp pains in his lungs, 
increased his sufferings. His face was flushed with the rush of 
blood to the head, and the painful shortness of breath increased 
till it threatened to choke him. 

Beethoven was alone ! He was sitting in his room, tired, 
sad, racked by his cough, and his pain. Out on the street the 
wild, merry life of Vienna was stirring. Whips snapped, wag- 
ons rolled along, soldiers passed by, and a proud, joyful march 
sounded like a shout of victory. Pedlars were crying their 
wares, the postilion on the post-carriage blew his horn lustily. 
Beethoven heard nothing. He had been deaf thirteen years, 
and the silence of death, in which he had lived so long, was 
around him now. 

Beethoven was alone ! His thoughts lingered in the distant 
past, which seemed to him like a lost paradise. He saw him- 
self with Eleonore Von Breuning and her mother, little Rosa, 
and all the friends on the beautiful Godesberg. The sun was 
setting, and yonder lay the beautiful Seven Mountains with 
their rocky crowns; yonder, the venerable Father Rhine rolled 
his silver waves majestically along. 

Alas, he had never seen his dear, beautiful home again, 
though he had sorely longed for it, and often planned an excur- 
sion to it. Therefore, he could not forget that one walk when 
the eagle’s wings had rustled above his head, and he had envied 
its bold flight toward those lonely, soundless regions near the 
sun. 

Beethoven sat alone, — in soundless stillness, in a solitude 
like that of the grave, thinking how wonderfully his life had 
shaped itself, and how it had many a time seemed as if a hand 
from out the clouds had pointed to a definite future. The 
course of thought led him to the crypt in the Kreuzberg, at 
Bonn. The dried corpses of monks long dead were standing 
there around the walls, and he could hear still his own cry of 
surprise at the question concerning his future, — the cry, “ Dead 
among the living, or living among the dead ? ” All was still as 


320 


Beethoven : 


the grave, and the silence of solitude rested on all the region 
around him, but no sweet voice cried as it had done then, “ Or 
living among the dead.” 

“Jeanette!” sighed Beethoven, and a happy, fleeting smile 
passed over his hard, marble features. But how strange. He 
could only remember Jeanette as she looked that evening 
when they were celebrating his birth-day, and she represented 
Fancy. How her dear, earnest face still shone upon him, how 
pleasantly she pointed out to him the laurel-wreath of everlast- 
ing fame. 

Everlasting fame. Beethoven sighed deeply. At the same 
instant Jeanette’s image seemed to dissolve into mist before his 
mental vision, but the mist seemed to be in motion, and soon it 
took another form. Now it is the head of a girl, — a picture, 
delicate, pale, ethereal. Yes, he knew the picture. It was 
his little Countess Eugenie. But what did she hold in her 
hand ? He could not quite tell what it was, but it seemed like 
a crown of thorns. All at once, the delicate face grew pale as 
a corpse, the eyes grew fixed like a ghost’s, the arms were 
stretched out as if averting some danger, and, with the words, 
“The cloud! the black cloud!” the picture vanished into the 
dark shadow. 

Whoever had seen Ludwig sitting there would have sworn 
that he was standing before a bronze figure. 

Other glorious memories came into his mind. The thunder 
of battle and shouts of victory, and a house rose before him, 
filled with countless dazzling men and women, with elegant 
ladies, emperors and kings, dukes and princes, — and all were 
shouting, — all were bowing, — and their shouts and their bows 
were for him, — the sovereign of the realm of tone, — for him, 
Ludwig Van Beethoven. 

At this moment the master’s eye fell upon an old, withered 
laurel- wreath, which had lost many of its leaves in the storm of 
time, and in Ludwig’s many moves from one dwelling to 
another, but it had always been carefully hung on the wall 
over the English piano. 

As Beethoven’s eye gazed at the wreath it grew green again, 
and fresh, and full, and a beautiful woman’s form came up, 
took it from the wall, and pressed it on Beethoven’s head. 

The master’s face lighted up, his tired eyes sent forth eager 


A Biographical Romance. 


321 


glances, his muscles grew tense, and a wonderfully-proud, 
happy smile played about the corners of his mouth. 

This was only for an instant ; then the golden sun-light faded, 
and the smile died away into an expression of indescribable 
despair. Beethoven pressed his hand to his head and cried : — 

“Enough! Enough! Since the eternal, terrible silence, the 
stillness of the grave, this horrible loneliness, surrounds me, be 
silent, also, ye voices of happy memories. Be dumb for me, 
flee from me, as all the world has done.” 

He was attacked by a severe coughing which continued till 
it almost choked him. Beethoven looked around in despair. 
He was alone ! He tried to call the housekeeper, but he could 
not. His breath grew shorter, his face was red and swollen, 
his eyes projected, his right hand was pressed upon his breast, 
his left grasped the back of the chair convulsively, then the 
cough grew less violent. 

But his strength was exhausted. He sank back on his chair, 
his eyes closed, while he whispered softly : — 

“Then I am to die — quite alone — and forgotten, forsaken 
by all the world.” 

A quarter of an hour later Music-Birector Schindler came up 
the steps in good spirits. When he came to the kitchen, at a 
short distance from the house, he went in and greeted Frau 
Streng pleasantly. 

“Well, Frau Streng,” he said cheerfully, “ how are you? 
Have you no letters from the master yet?” 

“Letters?” answered the astonished housekeeper, but, sud- 
denly, she remembered that the music director had not been 
there for several days. 

“ Oh, yes,” she said, “ letters, Herr Schindler, when the let- 
ter himself is in the house, alive but not well.” 

“What? How is it?” returned Schindler, amazed. “Hen- 
Van Beethoven is here again, and I knew nothing of it! ” 

“He has been here four days,” answered the housekeeper, 
stiff* with amazement. “ Did Mr. Louis not tell you ? ” 

“ Not a word,” said Schindler. 

“Oh, dear, and master is so ill.” 

But Schindler heard no more. He hurried to his beloved 
teacher’s room. As he tore open the door, horror deprived him 
for a moment of the power of speech or motion. 

21 


322 


Beethoven : 


Beethoven lay in his chair unconscious. 

“ Great God ! ” cried Schindler when he recovered his speech 
and went up to his friend. 

“Gracious Heaven!” cried Frau Streng, who followed him. 

Fortunately, Beethoven opened his eyes again at this mo- 
ment. He was still very weak, and some time passed before he 
could remember what had happened. How glad he was to see 
his faithful friend and pupil. With what loving care Schindler 
endeavored, with Frau Streng’s assistance, to strengthen and 
refresh him. 

“Why did you not come before?” asked Beethoven, with a 
weak voice, but without anger. 

“ Because I had not heard a word of your return,” .wrote 
Schindler. 

“ Hid not my nephew tell you? ” 

“ I have not laid my eyes on him.” 

Beethoven’s head sank upon his breast. 

Schindler, who, not a little alarmed at his friend’s condition, 
heard from Frau Streng an account of Beethoven’s sufferings, 
while the housekeeper brought a cup of the drink which she 
had provided for her master night and day, as he had no other 
physician. 

“ For Heaven’s sake,” he now wrote in the conversation book, 
“why did you not send for your old physician, Dr. Braun- 
hofer? ” 

Beethoven read it. Then turning a look of bitter irony upon 
Schindler, he said : — 

“ Frau Schnaps went to him. Do you wish to hear what he 
replied? ” 

Schindler made a sign of assent. 

“He replied that it was too far away for him.”* 

“What!” said Schindler,” with an inquiring glance at Frau 
Streng, and a flash of righteous indignation in his eyes. 

“Yes,” she answered, with folded hands. “The same Dr. 
Braunhofer who was so long our good master’s physician, and 
to whom, on new-year’s day, I have so often carried a handful 
of ducats, made me that reply.” 

“But why did you not send then for Dr. Staudenheim? — 
he has often treated you,” — asked the music director. 


♦Historic. 


A Biographical Romance. 


323 


“Schnaps went to him, also,” answered Beethoven; “he 
said he would come.” 

“And?” 

“ And he did not come,” * said Beethoven, and his head sank 
upon his breast again. 

There are experiences in human life when amazement at 
what is incredible checks for a moment the power of thought. 
It was so with Beethoven. How was it possible that men, that 
physicians, could be so unfeeling, so ungrateful, so forgetful of 
their duty even to the meanest man, and here — to one of the 
first and greatest of the century. 

Schindler had not recovered from his amazement, which had 
given place to a righteous indignation, when there was a knock 
at the door. 

Frau Streng opened it, and an elegant man entered. He 
was no longer young nor handsome, but his expression of kind- 
ness and sympathy was a great recommendation. 

“Whom have I the honor of addressing?” asked Music- 
Director Schindler. 

“Dr. Wawruch, Professor of Clinics,” answered the new- 
comer. “ I come to offer my services to Herr Van Beethoven.” 

Schindler looked at Beethoven with surprise. Neither of 
them knew Dr. Wawruch, but Beethoven, who was feeling very 
ill, wrote in the book : — 

“You are very welcome to me.” 

Wawruch now examined the disease. It was, without doubt, 
consumption of the lungs, caused by the journey in the open 
wagon. The physician made the necessary arrangements ener- 
getically. 

When Schindler escorted Dr. Wawruch out, he said, smil- 
ing:— 

“I owe you an explanation of my reasons for making this 
visit, being a perfect stranger to you and Herr Van Beet- 
hoven.” 

“I confess,” answered Schindler, “that I am doubly curious 
because it was so especially welcome.” 

“This morning,” said the physician, “a letter from some cof- 
fee house near here was brought into my clinic. When I gave 
the man the prescription he needed, something seemed to be on 


»Historic. 


324 


Beethoven : 


his mind. I inquired and learned that, two days before, Herr 
Van Beethoven’s nephew, who was playing billiards, had com- 
missioned him to find any physician he chose for his sick uncle. 
As he was ill, this was impossible, and he, therefore, asked me 
to come. Of course,” the doctor added, “I hastened here at 
once, and it surely was high time.” * 

Schindler’s face glowed with shame. He was scarcely able 
to express his own and the master’s thanks to the kind man 
who now took his leave. 

Could it be possible that what he heard was true, — that the 
man who owed everything to Beethoven — whom the latter had 
adopted as a son, for whom he saved and starved himself, upon 
whom he lavished love and kindness, who lived merrily on the 
fat of the land — was playing billiards, laughing and carousing, 
while his benefactor, his second father, was at home in danger 
of dying alone, and commissioned a servant to send any phy- 
sician he chose to the sick man? 

Schindler’s noble heart was bleeding. Pressing both hands 
to his face, he stood a long while in painful agitation over the 
fearful, tragic fate of his teacher and friend. 


THE EAGLE’S LAST FLIGHT. 

It was on the 2d of December, 1826, that Ludwig Van Beet- 
hoven returned with his nephew, the serpent that he had nurt- 
ured in his bosom, from his unbrotherly brother’s country seat, 
in an old, open wagon, to Vienna. 

Four days later Schindler found him in his room, almost 
choked with coughing, and Dr. Wawruch said that the master, 
whom he greatly revered, was in consumption. The case soon 
grew worse ; symptoms of dropsy appeared. The first punct- 
ure was on December 18th, the second followed January 8th, 
the third on the 28th of the same month, f 

Toward the end of J anuary, after long entreaties from Schind- 


JL fact. t Schindler, pp. 131, 132. 


A Biographical Romance. 


325 


ler, who had really exhausted himself by his devoted care of 
the sick man, the celebrated Dr. Malfatti was induced to pre- 
scribe for Beethoven. From this time, by the advice of both 
physicians, the only medicine which the sufferer received was a 
considerable quantity of iced punch daily, by which his system, 
completely exhausted by three operations, was so revived that 
he considered himself quite well again, threw away the volume 
of Walter Scott with which he had been trying to pass away 
the time, exclaiming, “ The man writes only for money,” and 
went to work again at a sonata for two performers, which he 
had been writing for Diabelli, although the physicians had posi- 
tively prohibited any mental exertion. 

A warm, cheerful sunbeam was once more to fall on his fad- 
ing life, like a sorrowful word of parting. His nephew had 
decided to enter the army, as no news had come from his 
mother, and had gone to join his regiment. 

Beethoven breathed more freely. His love was not exhausted, 
but it was crushed. His poor, wounded heart, so painfully 
racked by his nephew, needed rest. Beethoven, for whose 
favor all the nobility of Vienna had contended, who had been 
sought out by emperors and kings, to whom all true musicians 
and friends of art in the world had paid enthusiastic homage, 
now saw around him no one but the old companion of his 
youth, Hofrath Von Breuning, and his faithful pupil and friend, 
Music-Director Schindler. When these were prevented, by the 
duties of their calling, from being with Beethoven, the great 
master had a favorite companion and faithful nurse in Breun- 
ing’s son, eleven years of age. 

How often this handsome, intelligent boy, whose delicate face 
reminded Ludwig so much of Eleonore, and of the happy years 
he had spent at the Breunings’ house, — how often, in his free- 
dom from anxiety and ignorance of Beethoven’s dangerous con- 
dition, the boy cheered his lonely hours. Fate was binding 
the beginning and end of a great human life together like a 
ring, and letting both blend into each other. When Beethoven 
looked at the little boy, his whole life lay before him, from the 
jubilant youth with its innumerable hopes, when his heart 
delighted in so many ideals which he must strive to reach, to 
this old age stripped of all its expectations. And, yet, could 
he not say, with a good conscience, that he had reached his goal ? 


326 


Beethoven : 


Who, of all the musicians in the world, had held a higher 
position than he ? Who, of all the composers, had risen to such 
a gigantic height, even to the extreme limit of thought and 
action? Where was the human being who, in the domain of 
harmony, excelled him in majestic sublimity ? 

Were not all the ideals to which the noble ambition of youth 
had built altars still uplifted in his heart and mind ? Yes, 
Ludwig Van Beethoven looked down upon the invisible graves 
of sunken joys, but a majestic smile came over his face when, 
as he reviewed his life, he could say, with joyous self-approval, 
“ Thou hast honestly performed thy life-task as artist and 
man. Thou hast faithfully served the eternal, the divine spirit 
in thy soul ; thy labor was great, and rich in blessing, and the 
reward is — the immortality of thy name.” 

If he could but have been spared the misery and sorrow of 
earth. Like so many a great genius, the great Beethoven was 
pursued by sorrow to the grave. The world seemed to have 
forgotten him; he had been cheated and robbed; he saw a 
long sickness before him, and the necessity of work was greater 
than ever for the sick man, on his own account, and for his 
nephew. Beethoven shuddered. Want wa!s knocking at the 
door. 

Then the master thought of the Philharmonic Society, in Lon- 
don, which had given him many pleasant invitations, and always 
treated him with affection and regard, and Ludwig Van Beet- 
hoven, the pride of his century, here found support. 

But why did he not turn to his own brother, to Johann, the 
‘ land-owner,’ who had grown rich through him? Why? When, 
in the course of the disease which attacked Ludwig, in conse- 
quence of Johann’s unkindness, a hay-vapor bath was ordered, 
and Ludwig asked his brother to let him have some of his hay, 
Johann refused with the excuse that his hay was too bad.* 

Beethoven wrote to Moscheles and Sir George Smart, in 
London, to use their influence for him with the Philharmonic 
Society, which had always been so friendly to him. What a 
sensation this letter from the first of German composers must 
have made among his worshipers in London? A hundred 
pounds sterling came at once, and the assurance on the part 


* A fact. 


A Biographical Romance. 327 

of the Society that they were ready to render any further 
service necessary. 

But the Fates, those inexorable sisters who spin the destiny 
of man with their growing threads, had arisen. Atropos was 
ready to cut the thread of a great life. 

The morning of a beautiful March day lay pleasantly upon 
the earth. Beethoven was unusually excited by his iced punch, 
although the remedy was now often without effect. A pecul- 
iar, almost alarming, cheerfulness had come over him. Sud- 
denly, he was as happy as if he were quite well, or, at 
least, would be so in a short time. He seemed to himself like 
a man upon whom the heavy, iron door of a damp prison had 
suddenly opened, and who, leaving behind him all suffering, 
greeted his liberty with a jubilant shout. 

“I shall be well again,” he said to himself, “I feel it, and 
then I will lead a life of repose far from the world, in undis- 
turbed quiet. I will study nature, will meditate upon eternal 
truths, and give expression to both in new, grand musical crea- 
tions.” 

Alas, poor man ! He did not hear the wings of death rust- 
ling above him, and his bony hand gradually drawing away the 
heavy veil of this earthly existence. 

His eye rested with pleasure on the child-like face of young 
Breuning, who was not far from him, turning over engrav- 
ings in an old folio, and around whose fair head the rays of the 
spring sun, shining through the window, cast the halo of inno- 
cent childhood. 

“ Life looks so happy to him. May it not still have something 
pleasant for me?” thought Beethoven. “I have enjoyed but 
little good fortune. Good fortune — bad fortune ?” he asked 
himself, contemplatively. “ Viewed from a lofty stand-point, 
there is no bad fortune in the world. What are good and bad 
fortune but obstacles to the stream of our spiritual life ? They 
must be overcome that the stream may flow on strong and clear.” 
Beethoven looked at the boy again, who raised his bright blue 
eyes just then, and looked pleasantly at the sick man. The 
glance of the child moved the master deeply. He breathed it 
in like an elixir of life, and it seemed to strengthen him amaz- 
ingly. Then the desire came over him to compose once more. 
He had already planned the outline for the tenth symphony. 


328 


Beethoven : 


The thought of it, now that he felt better able to work, electri- 
fied him. The genius raised his proud head ; the eagle stirred 
his wings again. 

Beethoven asked the astonished little boy to give him his 
sketch. 

“ But you must not work,” the child wrote in the book. 

“I feel quite well again,” answered the master, gently 
caressing the boy’s fair, curly hair. “ A little work will amuse 
me.” 

In the meantime, the excitement and emotion had given so 
much energy to Beethoven’s appearance, that it deceived the 
inexperienced little boy. 

He gave Beethoven the sketch, which the master received 
with flashing eyes, and a strangely-hasty movement. Now all 
was lost and forgotten for him, — the World, life, sickness, joy 
and sorrow, — for he was composing, — Ludwig Van Beethoven 
was at work on his tenth symphony. 

When, after long and deep meditation, he had chosen a 
theme for his symphony, which entirely suited his purpose, he 
did not hurry to begin. He turned the theme this way and 
that, in order to learn all the transpositions of which it was 
capable. He wrote the thoughts as they came to his mind 
without order or selection, and without troubling himself about 
the place they would take later in the symphony, for they 
always rushed in upon him in greater abundance than was 
needed for the most comprehensive composition. When he 
went to work again, he chose from the sheets he had prepared 
what seemed to him the best, and formed either in his mind or 
with the aid of notes the general plan of the work, in which 
the separate materials, collected and assorted, arranged them- 
selves in proper order. Then came the details of the instru- 
mentation and rhythm. 

Truly glorious thoughts were rushing upon him today. He 
thought and wrote, stirred by a bold, powerful impulse. The 
work of a true artist proceeds from the idea alone, which gives 
it its direction and meaning, and is the reflection of the picture 
which he carries in his mind, while the form is to him only its 
visible representation : so it was with Beethoven. 

The eagle raised his proud wings again, — but it was his last 
flight. 


A Biographical Romance. 


329 


Beethoven suddenly threw the pen away, a death-like pallor 
covered his face; and, with a cry, he fainted. When he came 
to himself again, Frau Streng, the boy, and Hofrath Von Breun- 
ing stood near him. He gave a sorrowful look toward the few 
loved ones ; then he said, in a sepulchral tone : — 

“ That is the last disappointment, — it is all over with me — ” 
From that day Beethoven looked upon his approaching end 
with Socratic wisdom and tranquillity. Plato and his lofty 
ideas of morality and the rule of reason were clearer to him 
than ever. 

‘"I shall soon be at rest,” he said the next day to Schindler, 
with a quiet smile ; “ and this heart has surely need of rest, for 
it has been tom and tortured by men and by fate. But I close 
my eyes with the blessed consciousness that I have left one 
shining track upon the earth. I have much indeed to say of 
happiness, but there is no true happiness under the sun, 
neither with the village pastor nor with the prime minister. 
True happiness is nothing but the consciousness that in your life- 
work you have responded to the demands of the Eternal One.” 

Beethoven now requested Music-Director Schindler to attend 
to the dedication of his latest quartette, and to choose one of 
his best friends. Schindler gladly consented, and promised to 
introduce whatever was necessary, looking with admiration at 
the man who, in spite of all the ingratitude he had experienced, 
was anxious, with his latest breath, to show his gratitude to his 
few friends and patrons. 

Now Ludwig wrote his will with his own hand, — his last 
will, — by which, forgetting all injuries, he named his nephew 
and adopted son as heir of all his property. The legacy was the 
little sum which Beethoven had laid aside quietly from his 
income a long while before, and which had never been touched 
even when he was in greatest need. It was 10,000 florins.* 
The 24th of March dawned, and with it the first signs of the 
end of all suffering and sorrow, the natural consequences of his 
condition. A long, fearful struggle between death and life 
began. Stephan Yon Breuning and Schindler did not leave 
Beethoven. In response to a letter from Schindler, a friend, 
and worshiper also, came from a distance. It was Anselm 


* Schindler, p. 19. 


330 


Beethoven : 


Hüttenbrenner, well known* as a composer, who wished to see 
once more the dying man whom he loved and honored. The 
straggle continued through the two following days. Beethoven’s 
powerful nature had had a hard conflict with death. 

“Schindler,” said Hofrath Yon Breuning, on the afternoon 
of March 26th, sad and pale with watching the dying man, 
“ Schindler, he will not live till evening. Let us hasten to 
secure a burial place in the Wahring cemetery. It is at 
quite a distance, and I should like to be back soon.” 

As the straggle had grown less severe, and Hüttenbrenner 
remained behind, Schindler consented, and they went. It was 
an uncommonly sultry day for spring. Thick, black clouds 
were heaped upon the distant horizon, and a storm was approach- 
ing- 

Schindler and Breuning walked along in silence. The stu- 
pendous moment, the depth of their grief, the sorrowful object 
of their walk, — finding a last, quiet dwelling place for their 
beloved friend and revered master, — convulsed their hearts 
and locked their lips as with an iron clasp. Schindler could 
think of but one thing, — it was Hardenberg’s poem, which 
Beethoven had recited that morning with his feeble voice : — 

Death sounds the wedding call, 

The lamps their light are spending, 

The virgins all attending ; 

There is no need of oil. 

Let distant spaces echo 
The music of thy train ; 

And let the starry worlds resound 
With the sweet, human strain. 

Take comfort. Life treads onward 
To life forever more ; 

By inward glow expanded, 

Our souls grow clear and pure. 

The starry worlds will melt away 
To golden, living wine ; 

We shall enjoy its sweetness, 

And stars in glory shine. 

When they arrived at the cemetery, a funeral procession pre- 
vented them from going farther. 

Breuning asked, involuntarily, that he might divert his 


A Biographical Romance. 331 

thoughts a little while, who the dead man was, whom they were 
burying. 

“An old miser,” answered the person questioned, “who 
leaves an immense property behind him; one Dr. Fenchel,” 
and the procession moved on. 

Schindler and Breuning now did what was necessary ; but 
the day seemed unfortunate in every respect. The storm came 
on with such terrible force that they were obliged to stop again 
on their way home. 

Meanwhile, death was drawing nearer to Beethoven in cold 
and terrible majesty. 

But Ludwig Van Beethoven lay quiet now. His thick, 
gray hair was damp with perspiration. His strongly-marked 
features were made more prominent by his sunken cheeks ; his 
eyes, which had been so deep and earnest, were staring and 
motionless ; his mouth was firmly closed. 

The stillness of death reigned in the room. Hüttenbrenner 
sat by the dying man, and did not turn his eyes away from 
him. The faithful old housekeeper was kneeling by his bed, 
praying. 

It seemed outside as if nature knew what was going on 
within; as if, by displaying her incomparable grandeur and 
majesty, she wished to celebrate the first moment when one of 
the glorious sons of earth returned to her. 

The heavens were in a flame. Terrible lightning flashed 
through the air; the thunder rolled with such force that it 
seemed as if it would crush the earth to atoms ; the storm 
howled on like a cry of agony, and the hail beat angrily against 
the trembling panes.* 

The world did not think of him, the great Beethoven, to whom 
it had once paid enthusiastic homage, but the elements seemed 
to think of him. As in those powerful musical creations which 
he had left to the world his spirit often came forth out of a 
cloud, like a fearful flash of lightning, so now flashes darted 
out from the dark cloud above the heads of men, and the echo- 
ing thunder cried, “ Tremble, and sink into the dust ! Beet- 
hoven, Beethoven is dying ! One of the best of men, whom 
you have shamefully forgotten, is breathing his last beneath 
these thunder-bolts! ” 


* A fact. Schindler. 


332 Beethoven : 

The heavens and the earth trembled, and tbe storm howled 
“ Amen, amen ! ” 

Death also said “Amen.” Beethoven’s face was distorted, 
his eyes more fixed, glassy, and terrible. His breast heaved vio- 
lently in its long, fearful struggle ; the hand quivered, as if in 
the anguish of death ; the throat rattled 

Then a sea of fire covered the heavens, followed by a horri- 
ble thunder-clap ; a gust of wind blew the windows open, — a 
shrill, rattling cry, — and — Beethoven was no more! 

The church clock struck a quarter before six. The master 
had died in his fifty-sixth year. Hüttenbrenner closed his 
eyes, while hot tears ran down his face. Old Frau Streng 
threw herself upon the corpse and wept. 

When Breuning and Schindler came in a quarter of an hour 
later they heard the words, “It is finished.” But Ludwig 
Van Beethoven’s face had grown peaceful, and was lighted up 
by a beautiful smile. The great man’s sufferings and struggles 
were over, and a radiant spirit held above his head 


THE LAUREL WREATH OF IMMORTALITY. 

































































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